Through Thick and Thin
by charlock221
Summary: A-Z one-shots of hurt/comfort stories between Sherlock and John. Perhaps Sherlock doesn't realise just how much he needs John. Or vice versa, for that matter. They are always there for each other, though of course, their friendship isn't without its obstacles and difficulties.
1. Awe

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock**

_**Awe: **__A feeling of admiring respect mixed with fear or wonder._

"Sherlock!"

John Watson threw down the two shopping bags in his hands and quickly sprinted down the street to the long figure sprawled on the floor outside their flat. He vaguely saw someone running away from the fallen man, but the sound of his feet pounding on the pavement was the only thing John could focus on as he continued to run, finally reaching the still form and dropping down beside him.

Sherlock Holmes was face-down on the pavement, his eyes closed and a large head wound decorating his pale face. Slowly, John turned him on his back and lightly tapped his cheeks, hoping to coax a reaction from the consulting detective. Soon enough, Sherlock's eyelids began to flutter, and with a groan he opened his eyes and gazed up at John. A frown crossed his features as he took in the doctor.

"John?"

"Yes, it's me. Are you alright? What happened?"

Sherlock winced as he tenderly touched the gash on his head, before extending his hand expectantly. With a sigh, John took it and gently eased Sherlock into a sitting position.

"I leave you alone for ten minutes..." John muttered, "Who hit you, Sherlock?"

"Daniels." Sherlock answered, closing his eyes as he tried to fight off the oncoming headache. "Jason Daniels."

"He got away?" Sherlock nodded.

"How?"

"One of the rookies... driving the police car, was overpowered by him, even in handcuffs. Don't know what happened... after that."

The case they had just solved saw Tara Daniels' brother, Jason Daniels, arrested for her murder. Sherlock had managed to prove his guilt to Lestrade, and soon the man was being hauled into a police car, though not before shouting violent threats and curses to Sherlock, insisting he would take revenge. Of course, Sherlock had brushed it off, though it puzzled John that Daniels hadn't decided to finish him off just now; although John had probably interrupted him. Still, the maniac needed to be stopped before he managed to get his hands on Sherlock again.

At that moment, the door of 221B opened, and Mrs Hudson poked her head out. Seeing her two lodgers sat on the pavement, she hurried down the steps towards them.

"Oh, Sherlock, what have you done now?" she asked as she crouched on the other side of Sherlock and helped John to ease him to a standing position. Having now only remembered the fleeing figure that had run once John had arrived, the doctor turned to his landlady.

"Mrs Hudson, would you mind taking Sherlock inside? See to it that he gets plenty of ice, and don't let him fall asleep." At Mrs Hudson's nod, John began to walk quickly down the street where Daniels had fled, but a steel grasp on his arm caused him to stop and turn around. Sherlock was staring at him with his ice-grey eyes, and John tried to stare back for as long as he could.

"You're not going after him." Sherlock said firmly.

"Yes, I am. Go inside with Mrs Hudson, you need to be treated."

"I am perfectly fine." Sherlock argued, "Listen to me John, Daniels is dangerous. You can't go gallivanting off after him on your own."

"Now you know how I feel when it's you running after criminals." Wrenching his arm from Sherlock's grip he turned and continued to stride down Baker Street. He was stopped again, though, by Sherlock blocking his path.

"Sherlock," John growled, "You're being childish. Move out of the way. Don't you want Daniels stopped?"

"Of course I do, but I can't let you go alone."

"For crying out loud, Sherlock, let me–" he stopped abruptly when he saw a flurry of movement in the distance behind Sherlock. Noting this, the detective turned and saw Daniels vaulting a fence into Regent's Park. Without saying a word, Sherlock was racing after the now-apparent form of Daniels, John following closely behind him whilst checking for the gun in his waistband.

Within seconds the two of them had also jumped the fence and landed in the park, Sherlock's long coat flapping behind him as he continued to run further away from John in order to shorten the distance between himself and Daniels. The criminal glanced behind him and, seeing Sherlock so close to him, abruptly grabbed a small girl that was playing nearby and holding the child against him, a long blade pressed against her neck. Her mother screamed but stayed frozen in place, and Sherlock abruptly halted in his tracks, his hands held out in a placating gesture.

"Come any closer, an' I'll slit 'er throat." Daniels rasped, his Cockney accent becoming thick as he desperately tried to think of a way out for him.

Sherlock stayed where he was. Personally, he did not care for the girl, but he knew that John and others around him would think him just as bad as Daniels for not considering her life. The young girl, who must have been around six, had a terrified expression on her face and tears were beginning to well up in her eyes; the crowd that had now gathered from a distance noticed the silent sobs that wracked her body and everyone immediately tensed as Daniels continued to adjust the knife resting against her neck. John, who had only just caught up to them, attempted urgently to make his way through the on-lookers, but nobody budged. He growled in frustration and moved around the ring, until he had a better view of what was going on. His heart plummeted when he saw the desperate look in Daniels' eyes, knowing that desperate men did desperate things, and John feared greatly for the girl's safety.

Pulling out the gun from his waistband, he managed to find a gap in the mob and made his way forward, so that he was now in the ring directly behind Daniels. Due to his short height, Sherlock had not seen him, and was still trying to persuade the criminal to let the girl go. Daniels began to edge backwards, roughly yanking the child with him as he went. Without thinking, Sherlock took a hesitant step towards them, and Daniels immediately shouted at him, yelling at him to get back and pressing the blade further into the girl's neck, causing a small trickle of blood to run down her neck. She whimpered from the pain and tears began to escape, though she still put on a brave face and did not make any noises. Her mother had rushed to the circle, standing behind Sherlock and clutching at his sleeve, hysterically begging him to make the killer let her daughter go free. Sherlock was obviously frustrated with her, and tried to shake her off whilst not breaking eye contact with Daniels. In the distance, the wail of sirens could be heard, and Daniels instantly tensed. He continued to move backwards, but this time at a faster pace. The girl stumbled over her feet and cried out as she tripped, the blade running upwards along her face as she fell.

Suddenly, loud shouts were heard all over the park, as a swarm of police officers raided the ring and roughly pushed their way through. Sherlock looked around and yelled at them to stay back, and, seeing Daniels attempt to flee, ran towards the criminal, only to be stopped by three policemen who had barred their way in front, forming an impenetrable barricade against the onlookers and preventing anyone from getting in.

Having realised there was no point in trying to retrieve his hostage, Daniels had turned and bolted... straight into John. The doctor tackled the criminal to the ground, and quickly tried to wrestle the knife away from Daniels. The killer fought back, however, and managed to deliver a swift punch to John's wounded shoulder, eliciting a yell from him as he fell against the ground. Daniels was now on top of him, and attempting to drive the knife towards his chest. John gripped his arm with both hands, and struggled against him, keeping the blade elevated, though still wobbling inches from his heart.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, and having not noticed the police that had promptly arrived, he turned his head to the side to see the lanky detective being roughly pushed back every time he attempted to make his way past. John could faintly hear a string of curses coming from him, but none of the officers budged. Paramedics had then quickly entered the scene, and had whisked the mother and girl off to the sidelines to quickly treat the steady trickle of blood decorating the side of her face and her neck. Sherlock could see the situation John was in and was trying furiously to get to him, but the officers held a vice-like grip on his arm, threatening to have him arrested if he continued to persist. John could see the face of Lestrade in the background, watching him with a worried expression as he continued to fend off the murderer. The rest of the police could also do nothing but watch, deeming it too risky for John were they to try and shoot Daniels.

John turned his attention back to the murderous criminal, who now placed one hand around John's neck, squeezing as hard as he could. John's vision blurred and he knew he couldn't remove his hands from Daniels' arm without the knife falling closer to his chest. He looked around quickly for anything that he could use as a weapon, but nothing came into view as he became dizzier and dizzier.

Sherlock turned to one of the officers barricading his way.

"Listen to me," Sherlock hissed, "I will happily let you arrest me, but can we please postpone it... I need to help my friend!"

"I've told you, sir, no one goes in, and no one gets out. Now step back, or I will make you."

"Get out of my way, officer, or I will personally see to it that you no longer have a job at the end of the day."

"Oh? And who are you to-" The officer was abruptly cut off, however, when a loud shot echoed around the park, making Sherlock freeze in his place. The other officers, stunned, made no attempts to block him as he shoved his way past and began to run over to his friend. Looking over to John, he paled when he saw the two men lying on the ground. Sherlock slowed his pace in dread and made his way over to the doctor, a look of shock on his face when he saw his friend cough and sit up. John looked up at him and smiled.

"Got him." he breathed, motioning to the whimpering criminal next to him.

"How?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Managed to get my gun." John answered as he got to his feet.

Sherlock looked at him in awe. "Single-handedly?"

"Don't sound so surprised, I'm always gallivanting off after criminals, after all."


	2. Boredom

**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock**

**On with the next chapter, thank you all for the lovely reviews...**

_**Boredom: **__Being tired or weary from a dull, repetitious or uninteresting occurrence._

"Tea?"

"Mmph."

"...Should I take that as a 'yes'?"

"Mmph."

John sighed as he shut his laptop and put it on the table before making his way to the kitchen. He flicked the kettle on and retrieved two cups from the cupboard. They had literally been home for half an hour before Sherlock proclaimed his boredom. John had been expecting it, and had dearly hoped Lestrade or another client would walk through the door as soon as they'd sat down. Alas, it was not to be, and Sherlock was now lying face down on the sofa in his blue silk dressing gown. For the past ten minutes John had tried to wheedle Sherlock into conversation, but the only responses he got – _if _he got one – were mono-syllable ones.

Once the kettle had boiled, John poured the hot water into the two cups and trudged back into the living room. Moving over to the sofa, he held out one of the cups to Sherlock's back.

"Sherlock."

"Mmph?"

"Tea. Now."

Sherlock groaned before flipping on his back and reluctantly taking the cup. John made his way back to his chair and settled in it, sighing in relief now that he was finally able to relax. His relief was short-lived, however, when one consulting detective spoke up.

"Check my website for cases."

"Do it yourself." John answered, sipping at his drink.

"Mmph. Dull. Look in the newspaper."

"Again, do it yourself."

Sherlock sighed heavily as he got up, placing the untouched tea on the coffee table and began to pace.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm bored."

"I gathered. Why don't you ask Lestrade if he needs any guidance on a case?"

"If it was anything that would interest me, he would have come here himself."

"Well, I'm sorry Sherlock, but you are going to have to think of something yourself."

Sherlock sighed again. "I _need _a stimulant." he muttered to himself. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, and he looked up at John, with almost a pleading expression. John caught his eye, and frowned.

"What?" he asked suspiciously.

"I _need _them, John." Sherlock whined.

John continued to frown, but realisation suddenly hit him and he quickly stood up, facing Sherlock.

"No Sherlock." he said firmly. "We've been through this."

"John, you don't understand. My mind–"

"–will continue to deteriorate if you keep using them. It's for your own good, and I don't care what you say to me, you can't have them."

"John." Beat. "Listen to me. You cannot even _begin _to understand what is and isn't good for me, and _I _don't care what _you _say to _me_, because when I find them, and I will, I shall smoke every single day for the rest of my life." Sherlock's eyes had clouded over with frustration as he advanced on John, making sure the doctor felt intimidated by him. John, however, stood his ground.

"Sherlock." Beat. "You listen to _me_. You will not find them, and even _if _you do, there is no way in Hell I am going to allow you to use them, and you will have to fight me every single day for the rest of your life if you're that determined. So stop pretending to be all manipulative, because _it's not working_. If you're going to be like this, then I suggest you go and sulk in your room." Honestly, it was like he was scolding a child. Sherlock stared at him, attempting to stare the smaller man down, but John held the gaze and waited for Sherlock to move. After what must have been at least five minutes, Sherlock stormed into his room, slamming the door behind him.

_Make that teenager_, John thought to himself as he moved the two cups of cold tea to the kitchen. Abruptly, his phone pinged and he moved over to it. When he read the new message, he rolled his eyes, hearing the condescending tone in the text.

_Nicely handled, John – MH_

Quickly, he typed back a reply.

_Right, because you could have done that better? – JW_

Feeling a little bit better with himself, though knowing that getting into an argument with Mycroft was futile, he made his way downstairs and onto Baker Street, forming a mental shopping list in his head as he walked to the store.

* * *

Upon returning to 221B, John paused outside the living room door, listening to the scuffle coming from inside. Sighing, he placed the shopping bags on the table before heading over to the living room to watch the treasure hunt that was occurring. Sherlock was tipping the room back to front in order to find the small carton that he so desired. The books were strewn over the floor from being thrown from the bookshelf, the sofa was half-way in the living room from being pulled back from the wall, and even the skull was now watching the scene upside down.

"Sherlock." John said, but either the detective didn't hear him, or was just ignoring him. John suspected the latter.

"_Sherlock_." he raised his voice a bit, but Sherlock continued to ransack the place.

"Sherlock!" Finally, he stopped, but only to shoot John a murderous look.

"John, _please_." The doctor knew he was getting desperate, but they had agreed, and John really didn't want to get on the wrong side of Mycroft.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I–"

Sherlock scoffed loudly, cutting him off. "Don't apologise when there's something you can do about it... I'll only have one." he added, almost as an after-thought.

"No, I'm not going to change my mind." Sherlock continued to glare at him, so he decided to change the subject.

"Tea?" Sherlock sighed and flopped down onto the sofa, not bothering to clear the mess in the living room. Soon John had a new cup on the coffee table next to Sherlock as he sat down once again. He was just about to take a sip, when there was a sharp knock at the door. Sherlock rolled over and looked across at John.

"Expecting anyone?"

"No, you?" Sherlock shook his head.

Both men smiled; John from the relief of not having to put up with Sherlock's dark moods, and Sherlock because he _finally _had something to look forward to. The pair looked at each other and spoke simultaneously.

"Client."

**A/N: I know this chapter wasn't too exciting, but I couldn't really think of anything else to do for B. Reviews are always appreciated, and thank you to those who have already favourite/alerted/reviewed :)**


	3. Client

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews, sorry it's been a while. Without further ado...**

_**Note: This isn't a continuation of the previous chapter.**_

_**Client: **__A person or company that seeks the advice of a professional man or woman._

John hopped down the remainder of the stairs, fixing his black tie and buttoning up his suit as he walked into the living room. Sherlock was slouched in his chair, eyes on the ceiling and hands pressed in a prayer position in front of his lips. Opposite him, in John's chair, was a tall, slender man, with short, blond hair. Client. The man was currently half-way through telling the consulting detective his story, and by the look of his face, Sherlock wasn't finding it very interesting.

"…I then proceeded to call the police, and they said–"

"Where are you going? You look different." Sherlock interrupted his client mid-sentence as John entered the living room and began adjusting his tie in the mirror. The doctor smiled to himself; 'different' was the closest thing to a compliment he was ever going to get from the detective.

"I'm going to a wedding." he answered.

"Wedding?" Sherlock said, as if he'd never heard of the word. "Why on earth are you going to a wedding?"

"Because I've been invited, Sherlock." John said with an exasperated sigh.

"By whom?"

John hesitated. He knew he would regret telling Sherlock, as the detective would continue to tell him non-stop about how the marriage will undoubtedly fail. Sherlock, however, observed the hesitation and knew instantly who it was.

"Harriet." he said, his words dripping with contempt. John nodded.

The tall client had been sat down whilst this conversation had been occurring, with a look of bewilderment on his face. "Sorry," he interrupted, "I wasn't aware of anyone else in this flat."

"Mr. Sawyer, this is John Watson. He's my flatmate and colleague." John smiled warmly and extended his hand. Mr. Sawyer, however, did not take it.

"I thought you worked alone?" he addressed Sherlock.

"Well, you would be mistaken. John has been working with me for a good year and a half." John smiled again in confirmation.

"I see." He now turned to John. "And why aren't you on this case?"

John frowned. "I – I'm going to a wedding." he said uncertainly.

Mr. Sawyer didn't seem satisfied with this answer. "And you couldn't have skipped it?"

John was definitely confused by now. What was this man getting at? "I'm sorry, is there a problem?"

"Oh, no problem. It's just that I assumed that if you worked with Mr. Holmes, you worked on _all _his cases."

John stared at him, dumbfounded. "Well, Mr. Sawyer, I have a life besides working with Sherlock. And no offence, but why are you taking this so seriously?"

"Because, Mr. Watson–"

"Doctor." he interrupted. "Doctor Watson."

"Because, _Doctor _Watson, my case is a very serious one and I like to think that those I entrust it to will not dilly-dally when solving it."

"Sir, you haven't even told me about your case, so there is no reason to get defensive about it. Sherlock doesn't need my help, so you'll be perfectly fine with him."

"Hmm. I would imagine so. You say you're a doctor? I thought doctors worked at hospitals, or clinics? You obviously can't be a good one if you haven't even got a job there."

"I can assure you that I am a _very_ good doctor, and if you continue then very soon your nasal and mandible bones will be broken."

"What?" he asked dumbly.

"He's threatening to punch you in the face." Sherlock explained, rolling his eyes. _Obviously not very bright_.

"Yes, and I have better things to do than stand here and _dilly-dally _with the likes of you. If you'll excuse me, I need to go." John moved into the hallway to grab his overnight bag, and when he came back into the living room, Mr. Sawyer was confronting Sherlock.

"Are you just going to let him leave?" he demanded.

"Mr. Sawyer, I have no control over what John does. Although, John," he turned to the doctor, "I would prefer it if you didn't speak to my client like that," Beat. "And it would be better for me if you stayed here. Going to that wedding would be very inconvenient."

"Right, because it's always about you, Sherlock, isn't it?" John growled. "I don't give a damn as to whether this is an inconvenience. My sister's getting married, and I am going to be there!" With that, he took his bag stormed out of the living room, slamming the front door as he left.

"What an extremely rude man!" Mr. Sawyer exclaimed as he slouched back down in John's chair. "I am surprised, Mr. Holmes, that you put up with him. Should I continue my story?" he looked expectantly at the consulting detective.

Sherlock was still staring at the door that John had stormed out of, not paying any attention to his client.

Eventually fixing his cold stare onto said man, he observed that Mr. Sawyer was gazing around his flat, his eyes resting on the open laptop that had remained on John's blog. With an indignant snort, the client looked back up at Sherlock.

"Well?" he asked impatiently.

"Actually, Mr. Sawyer, I'll have you know that John is a very close friend of mine, and I do not appreciate you insulting him like that. And, no, I will not accept your case. It is tremendously boring, and I don't care whether you think the police are wrong: listen to them and I'm sure they will provide an answer. Good day." Sherlock moved over to the door and held his arm out as a gesture for Mr. Sawyer to leave. His client glared at him before standing up and moving over to the detective.

"Yours and your colleague's behaviour today has been unacceptable," he said solemnly "and I can assure you that you will be hearing from my lawyer."

Sherlock scoffed. "Go through with that, and you will be hearing from the British Government."

"Is that a threat?"

"No, it's a promise." Sherlock said, smiling.

Mr. Sawyer shot him another murderous look before walking proudly out of the room and down the stairs.

After he had gone, Sherlock moved back over to his chair. Before he could sit down, however, his phone chimed. Moving over to it, he contemplated not reading it, but he decided to humour himself.

_It would be nice if you did not always use my position as a threat, dear brother. Unlike some people, I am not going to constantly be at your beck and call – MH_

Sherlock huffed, before punching in a reply.

_Thank you for giving your advice, please don't do it again – SH _

Sherlock threw his phone aside and sat down, whisking up his violin from the floor. He had been plucking at the strings for five minutes when he heard the door downstairs open and closed. As footsteps pounded up the stairs, Sherlock looked up to see John hurriedly enter the living room, avoiding eye-contact with him as he looked about the room until he picked up his jacket from the floor.

"Forgot this." John said gruffly, waving the jacket in the air. His eyes finally looked up, and he paused in his way to the door.

"Where's your client?" he asked.

"I threw him out."

"You... Why? Weren't you interested in his case?"

"Mmph. Dull."

"Oh, God." John said. "Does this mean you're going to be bored?"

"Probably." Sherlock answered, already looking for something to do as he spoke.

"Great." John muttered. "Do you... do you want me to stay here with you?"

Sherlock smiled softly, "It's fine. Go, your cab will drive off in a minute."

John gave him a brief smile, showing his thanks, before rushing back out the door.

**A/N: Please review, they are always appreciated :)**


	4. Drug

_**Drug: **__A chemical substance taken for the effect it produces._

Sherlock stepped down off the footstool with the small black device in his hands, having just found it on top of the fridge. Smiling smugly, he placed the microscopic camera on the floor and promptly stamped on it, relishing the sound of broken plastic and glass. He was certain that was the last of Mycroft's cameras, and now he could do things without his brother – or anyone else – interfering, especially as John was currently in Scotland, visiting relatives, and wouldn't be back until tomorrow evening.

Settling back down in his chair, Sherlock pulled the small hypodermic syringe from under the sofa, where it had been stored for the past thirteen hours as the detective made absolutely sure that he found all of the cameras and microphones hidden in the flat. Despite John having only been gone for sixteen hours and forty minutes, Sherlock was already pining for something to do, although the little treasure hunt he had just embarked on did provide a little entertainment.

Exhaling in pleasure as he felt the contents of the syringe flow into his blood, Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back, welcoming the stimulating effect the drug produced on his mind. He knew that if John found out he'd be angry, but the whole point of this was that John would _not _find out, as he was confident the effects would wear off by the next day.

He estimated lounging there for around two hours, sitting in a dream-like state with his eyes half-closed, legs stretched out and arms hanging over the sides. However, Sherlock instantly snapped out of it when the soft tread of footsteps on the stairs interrupted his thoughts, and his head instantly shot up as he pushed himself up in his chair, hastily unrolling his sleeve and knocking the needle to the floor as a brief knock resounded through the room.

Without waiting for invitation, the door swung open and Mycroft Holmes stepped in. The pressed suit and stern expression would convince anyone of the power he held, but as soon as Sherlock saw his brother, he rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft." he said, "To what do I owe this pleasure? I'm not going to bother asking how you knew what I was doing because frankly, I don't care. But I trust that I will not be on the receiving end of another condescending speech? Because if so, I suggest you not waste your time and leave now."

The elder Holmes forced a smile. "You didn't look in the skull. And, no, there will be no speech. I won't be staying long. I'm merely here to warn you of the danger you are putting yourself in."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "I have heard this a thousand times, Mycroft, and nothing you have to say about what cocaine does to my body will convince me to stop. Now leave." Sherlock waved his arm towards the door, not bothering to get up.

Mycroft smiled again. "Oh, no. I have long since learned that technique won't work. No, I am warning you about the soon-to-be angry doctor, whose cab will stop outside in approximately..." Mycroft looked at his watch, "... one minute."

_Shit_. "I know. He called me." Sherlock said off-handedly. _Why didn't he call me?_

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, letting Sherlock know he wasn't convinced but playing along anyway. "Really? Well then, this was a wasted journey. I suppose if you know what you're doing, I'd better be leaving."

"Mmm. Good day." Sherlock looked about the room in a bored fashion until he heard the distinctive _click _of the front door closing.

"Shit!" Sherlock leapt out of his chair and hastily grabbed the syringe from the off the floor, lifting up the chair cushion and placing it between the seat, before sitting back down on top of it just as the door downstairs opened and slow footsteps plodded upwards, before a weary looking John, laden with a large suitcase, walked into the room. Upon seeing Sherlock, he gave a tired smile as a 'hello' and put the suitcase in the corner before moving into the kitchen and switching on the kettle.

"You're back early. Why?" Sherlock asked.

John looked across at him. "Why do you want to know? Usually you don't even notice I'm gone."

Sherlock shrugged. "Humour me."

John sighed. "I... er... had a bit of a disagreement with someone."

"Harriet?"

"Ah... no. My dad, actually."

"What happened?"

John frowned at him. "It doesn't matter. I'll probably call him later anyway." he said. "You done anything productive while I was gone?"

Sherlock spread out his arms. "You know how it is. Found cures to a few diseases and wrestled with an alligator, but nothing much as a whole."

John chuckled, but faltered as he looked again at Sherlock. "What did you do to your arm?" he asked, gesturing to a now-forming bruise on Sherlock's right forearm. The detective instinctively pulled his sleeve over it and casually brushed the question aside.

"It's nothing. I slipped, is all." It was a pathetic excuse, but it was the best Sherlock could come up with. Clearly, though, John hadn't fallen for it.

"You slipped... and a small circular bruise appeared on the middle of your arm, and nowhere else. How did you fall?"

"I... erm... I–" Before he could come up with anything, John had suddenly crossed the room and grabbed Sherlock's arm, studying the bruise. The detective quickly snatched it out of his grip and stood up, sliding past John and moving to the fire place to prevent him from pursuing him further, but it was clear by the look on the doctor's face that he already knew what it was.

"Where is it?" John asked quietly.

"Where's what?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"I'm not stupid; I saw the pinprick on your arm. Where's the needle?"

"It's none of your business."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, of course it's my business! I'm your doctor!" John's voice was beginning to get louder, and Sherlock quickly matched his tone.

"No, you're not! You've just assigned yourself to me, issuing orders about when to eat and sleep, always tutting whenever I get into scrapes. I don't need your help, and I don't answer to you!"

"Sherlock, if it means so much to you then I'll stop _worrying_ about you, but don't think for one second that I'm going to stand by and let you waste your life by occupying yourself with that damned drug. You're always belittling me for how small my mind is, but yours will be _destroyed _if you persist! Now give me the syringe!"

"No, John, I will not! I couldn't care less about what you think will happen to me; I'm not going to listen to someone who's always getting in my way and cooing over me, so just leave me be!"

"Sherlock, dammit, say what you want, but I am not leaving this room until I have that syringe!"

"Jesus Christ, John, you think you can just swoop in here and save the day, like you always do. Look out everyone! Here comes John to look after his sociopathic _friend_, who also happens to be an addict and needs constant attention to prevent himself from getting a paper cut!" Sherlock subconsciously moved towards his chair as he spoke. John noticed this movement, and (almost) imperceptibly limped forward in an attempt to search the seat, but Sherlock beat him to it and swiftly plucked the syringe from between the cushions, holding it up and away in his left hand, out of John's reach. "You are not in control of my life, and I don't need an _invalid _constantly hovering and telling me what to do!"

Sherlock noticed the flash of hurt that flew across John's features, but the doctor did not waver. He told himself that it was the drug talking, so instead he held out his hand patiently.

"Sherlock." he said quietly. "Give it here, please."

The detective shook his head stubbornly.

"Give. It. _Here_." In his frustration, John grabbed his arm and wrenched it down towards him. Without thinking, Sherlock drew back his other arm and threw a right-hook at John's face. The strength of the punch and the shock from receiving it caused John to sprawl across the floor. Sherlock reeled back in horror, abruptly dropping the needle as he watched John slowly pick himself up, a hand against his cheek, and limp out of the room and up the stairs without so much as a backward glance at Sherlock.

The detective let out a shaky breath and sank down into his chair, his hands covering his face. He'd hit John. _Hit _him. John. Loyal, faithful, trustworthy John. He was surprised he hadn't been hit back. It was more than he deserved, and he knew. As his mind dimly registered distant footsteps climbing the stairs, a loud _ping_ sent him into an even darker mood.

_Bravo, Sherlock - MH_

* * *

John hung his head down as he leaned over the sink, waiting for the headache to clear. Looking up at himself in the mirror, he could see the red welt staining his left cheekbone, and it wouldn't be long until it bruised. Sherlock had hit him. _Hit _him. Brilliant, amazing, clever Sherlock. In all fairness, he'd deserved it – he'd been too harsh with the detective, and it was understandable that he'd snapped, but still, calling him an invalid seemed a little unnecessary and it had hurt. A lot. He was still angry with Sherlock – no doubt about that – but he was beginning to regret his actions.

With a long sigh, John went back into his bedroom and flopped down onto the bed, eliciting a hiss as his face hit the pillow. He remained like that for another five minutes until a soft knock caused him to turn on his back.

"Come in." he said sullenly, one arm thrown across his closed eyes in a futile attempt to lessen the pounding headache.

The door opened quietly as light footsteps crossed the room and a gentle hand touched his shoulder.

"Let me see, dear." said a female voice, and John removed his arm and opened his eyes to see Mrs. Hudson peering down at him with a look of concern on her face.

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson, you don't need to –" Before he could get any further, the small landlady had hushed him and softly pressed a cold flannel against his cheek. He winced at first, but soon the relief given from the coolness overcame the pain, and he took the flannel from Mrs. Hudson and sat up. She sat next to him on the bed and patted his knee.

"Sherlock told me what happened." she said. "And if it makes you feel any better I gave him a good telling-off for it, too."

John smiled at her. "It's fine. I was just as bad."

"Sometimes I think I'm renting my rooms to a pair of schoolchildren." she said with a sigh. "One minute, you're the best of friends, and the next you're bickering non-stop."

"I know. I'm sorry if we disturbed you, I didn't mean to shout, and Sherlock didn't either, I think."

"You need to stop apologising for him, John. Let him make his mistakes, and he'll soon realise what he's done and come round." She leant forward and kissed his forehead before getting up off the bed and handing him a hot mug that had been sitting on his bedside table. "Have a nice cup of tea, and I'm sure you'll be feeling much better. I'm popping off to the shops, did you want anything?"

John smiled and shook his head whilst raising the cup to his lips as Mrs. Hudson left the room and travelled downstairs.

* * *

Sherlock was still sat in his chair, his mobile phone thrown across the room, and the hypodermic needle smashed into a thousand pieces after standing on it. He heard the tread of footsteps coming down and he looked up hopefully, only to continue sulking once he saw Mrs. Hudson enter the room. Having noticed his expression, the landlady frowned.

"You need to go to him, dear. Don't expect him to always forgive you. There's a line, and right now you've crossed it. It's you who needs to make amends, not him. Now, drink the tea that I've given you and sort this out for yourself."

After she left, Sherlock drank his tea slowly, contemplating his next move. Having eventually finished the drink, he set down the cup and silently made his way upstairs, hovering in front of the closed door. He leaned forward, but heard no movement from within, so gently pushed it open and looked inside.

John was lying on his bed facing the door with his legs tucked up to his chest and eyes closed. Sherlock quietly moved forward and crouched down in front of him. The light from the hallway clearly displayed the purplish bruise forming along the doctor's cheekbone, and guilt washed over him as he gently ran his thumb across it.

"You're supposed to knock." John mumbled, eyes still closed.

Sherlock jumped violently and withdrew his hand as if he'd been bitten, but quickly regained his composure. John had opened his eyes, and was watching him closely, trying to prevent a small smile from crossing his face as he waited for Sherlock to speak. When nothing happened, John decided to take the first steps.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry for being so harsh with you. It was unfair, and–"

"No." Sherlock cut him off. "There's no way that you should be apologising. It was unforgivable of me for hitting you, and what I said was cruel and completely untrue. I shouldn't have spoken so rashly, you were only trying to help, and I am truly sorry for pushing you away."

John gave a small smile. "It's alright, Sherlock. I know I can be a little forward, and I don't mean to be controlling–"

Sherlock interrupted him. "You're never controlling, John, only considerate and caring. I'm being immature and irresponsible and sulky and–"

"That's enough, Sherlock. It's in the past now, and you're forgiven. We're both being childish, as Mrs Hudson rightly said, and we should just move on."

Sherlock smiled warmly. "I cannot agree more."

"Good. Now go and get some sleep, you look terrible."

"You look worse." Sherlock muttered as he stood up.

"You do."

"No, you do."

"Liar."

"Double liar!" Sherlock said as he swung the door shut.

"That doesn't even make sense!" the voice called through the door, laughter shaking his words.

"Does so!"


	5. Exhaustion

**A/N: Thank you all so, so much for the reviews/favourites/alerts – they always make my day!**

_**Exhaustion: **__Being in the state of extreme tiredness._

"How could you have been sure it was William Marshall?" Detective Inspector Lestrade asked.

"Oh, please, didn't you see his trousers?"

"His _trousers_? What could possibly have been on his–"

"You only ever find the mud that was on them near the docks, and seeing as that was where Josie Adams was murdered, it was suspicious, to say the least. He had no reason to be there, and seeing as he hadn't bothered to scrape off the mud, it instantly put him at the scene of the crime. Motive was perfectly clear, of course."

"And that was?"

"She was blackmailing him."

"What? That twelve year-old girl was blackmailing him?"

"Obviously. She found out that..."

While the conversation between Sherlock and Lestrade had been taking place in the detective's office, John had been stood near the door, putting on a valiant effort not to fall asleep exactly where he was standing. He hadn't been listening to the two of them, as Sherlock had already exclaimed the conclusion to the case to him three hours ago, so it wasn't surprising that the adrenaline had worn off after six days of constantly running around after the detective.

"... which is why, Detective Inspector, that you had your incompetent police officers arrest the wrong person."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, dumbfounded, before sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock." he said, "I admit, that without you, we would have convicted the wrong person," Sherlock smirked, "but it is one o'clock in the morning. This couldn't have waited until at least 8 o'clock?" Sherlock was about to say something, but Lestrade interrupted him. "Go home, Sherlock, and for crying out loud, get some sleep."

"Fine. Come on, John." John jolted back to awareness as Sherlock turned and stalked out of the office. He nodded at Lestrade, who gazed back at him sympathetically, before hurrying after the detective.

The cab ride home was agonising. John was determined not to fall asleep throughout it, for he was sure he would be faced with Sherlock's patronising stare, rolling his eyes at how human John was. No sir, he wasn't going to put up with that tonight. Still, the bumps and jolts along the road made it increasingly difficult for him to keep his eyes open. Sherlock remained oblivious, tapping away on his phone and bouncing his leg impatiently.

"Something's not right." he muttered.

"Hmm?" John replied, barely listening.

"I said something isn't right."

"How so?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't reply, instead looked out of the window and ignored any more attempts John made at a conversation.

Finally, they arrived back at 221B, and Sherlock leapt out of the taxi, leaving John to pay the cabbie. He managed to drag himself up to the living-room, and with a sullen 'good-night' trudged up to his room, with Sherlock still pacing about downstairs as he flopped down on top of his bed fully clothed and fell asleep almost instantaneously.

* * *

"John, wake up. John!" Strong hands clasped his shoulders and shook him until he opened his eyes groggily and looking up at the consulting detective stood over him.

"Sherlock? Whazza matter?" he slurred, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"I've found it, John!" he said with glee.

"Found what?"

"The answer. To the case!"

"Case? I thought you'd already solved it?"

"No no no no no. Do keep up John. I was wrong about it being Mr. Marshall; I was looking at it from the wrong angle."

"And why have you woken me up? It's... half two in the morning! I've only been asleep for an hour and a half!"

"Oh, you'll be fine. Quickly, I need you downstairs look in the newspaper to see what it says about Josie Adams' death."

"What? Why can't you do it?"

"Because I'm busy. Hurry up!" With that, Sherlock flew out of the room and pounded down the stairs. Sighing and rubbing his eyes again, John got up from his warm and cosy bed and made his way downstairs. Upon entering the sitting room, he instantly made a bee-line for the kettle, and pulled out his mug whilst he waited for it to boil.

"One for me too, thanks." Sherlock called from the living room.

Sighing again, John retrieved another mug and prepared the tow cups. He placed one on the desk where Sherlock was sat, eyes glued to John' laptop screen, whilst he walked over to the sofa and settled into it, pulling the nearest newspaper closer to him. He had no idea what he was looking for, but he continued to flick continuously through the pages as his mind continued to moan about having been awake for the past 142.5 hours. John pushed the thoughts aside and tried to focus on the impossibly small print in front of him, but his vision was blurring and he could feel his tea slipping out of his hands. He firmly placed the tea on the table, and blinked hard a few times to clear the blurriness, but every time he tried to concentrate, the exhaustion would overpower him and he noticed his eyelids drooping on numerous occasions. Placing his hands over his eyes, John leaned back into the couch and closed them momentarily, until a shout from across the room caused him to sit straighter and look up to the detective.

Sherlock was already on his feet, and clapping his hands together whilst a big smile spread across his face. "The sister, John." he looked back towards the doctor, who was watching him with a blank expression. "The sister!" When John offered no reply, he began to pace around the small room as he delved into his explanation.

"It was too obvious for Mr. Marshall to have killed her – blackmail usually ends in a death one way or another. And besides, he's far too weak to have murdered a twelve-year old girl. No, what struck me even more, though, was her cause of death."

"Poison?" John asked, settling back against the couch and closing his eyes whilst listening to Sherlock.

"Exactly. Where could a solicitor get his hands on poison? Though it was clear he hated Miss Adams, he doesn't have the brains to pull it off. But what about his sister? You saw yourself how close they were, but perhaps you did not observe the tensing of her jaw and the tightening of her muscles when I mentioned her brother being blackmailed. She was angry, and not shocked as she should have been – it was the first time I had mentioned it and at the time I didn't think Marshall had told anyone about his situation. When I then proceed to claim that he was the culprit, I saw panic in her eyes. I didn't think anything of it at the time; I presumed she was worrying about the future, but now it's clear that she was also feeling guilty. Also, poison is a woman's murder weapon. It screams passion, and though this was no love affair, she cared deeply for her brother and did not want to see him harmed. Ergo, she killed little Josie Adams."

There was no praise from the sofa, so Sherlock rummaged in his pocket and pulled out his phone, strolling into the kitchen and waiting for the person at the other end to pick up.

_"Wha–? Hello?"_

"Lestrade. It's Sherlock. I've solved your case."

"_Sherlock? Why the hell are you calling me at... half two in the morning?_"

"Why does everyone keep pointing that out to me? Anyway, like I was saying, I've solved your case."

"_Case? You've already solved it._"

"If I had 'already' solved it, I wouldn't be calling you now, would I? Use your initiative, Lestrade."

There was a long pause. "_...Sherlock, this can wait until the morning._"

"You have a fugitive out there, Lestrade, I don't think it can. Marshall's sister is the killer."

"_If she is the killer then she'll have no reason to run – Marshall is currently in custody so she'll feel safe._"

Sherlock huffed. "I suppose you're right."

"_Of course I'm right. Now please, get some sleep._"

"I don't need sleep. John and I are–"

"_John? Oh, God Sherlock. What on earth did you wake John up for_?"

"I needed him to–"

"_You didn't need him; you wanted to show off to him. Didn't you _observe _the state he was in at the Yard?_"

"What are you talking about? John is perfectly–" Sherlock walked back into the living room and stopped talking when he saw the doctor slumped on the sofa, head lolling to one side and eyes firmly shut.

"_Asleep_?"

"I – yes." Sherlock answered, still watching John.

There was a sigh from Lestrade. "_He's not like you, Sherlock. He needs to sleep more than you, and you can't assume he'll always be able keep up_."

"He's usually fine..."

"_Sherlock, he's pretending. He doesn't want your condescending speech constantly in his ear every time he yawns, so of course he's going to act like he's fine._"

"Should I move him?"

"_No! For God's sake, don't wake him up. Just... make him more comfortable. And Sherlock, don't ever wake me up at this time again._" The phone line went dead, and Sherlock put it back in his pocket before moving over to the sofa. Gently, he cradled John's head as he lay him down, pulling a cushion forward and propping it behind him, then removed his shoes and lifted his legs up. He fetched a blanket from his room and placed it over the doctor, making sure he wouldn't get cold during the night. Once finished, Sherlock straightened up and wasn't altogether surprised when a yawn escaped his lips. Finally giving in to his body's demands, he went into his room and blearily changed into his pyjamas before crawling into bed and falling asleep.

**A/N: Reviews are always appreciated, and thanks to those who have done so already x **


	6. Fall

**A/N: Apologies for the delay, been away for a few days x **

_**Fall: **__To descend by the force of gravity from a higher to a lower place._

It had all happened so quickly. He had seen Sherlock there, hand outstretched, begging him not to move. He had heard the quiet sob mixed with a short laugh. He had felt his heart freeze and his blood drain as his best friend plummeted off the building.

John couldn't remember much of it. He vaguely recalled staggering forward after being knocked down by a cyclist and dropping to his knees as a stranger rolled Sherlock over to reveal those grey eyes that usually shone and twinkled were now dim and unfocused. He remembered taking the limp wrist in his hand and desperately searching for a pulse, but all too soon foreign fingers were prying him away as he stumbled backwards and listed to the right, and fortunately having the person knelt there catch him. He had dimly registered the comforting hand that was on his shoulder, and suddenly the face of Detective Inspector Lestrade was hovering in front of him and then guiding him to a car as nurses ran out of the hospital and put the world's only consulting detective on a stretcher, wheeling him away and out of sight.

He couldn't remember the car journey at all, but soon he was in Lestrade's apartment, sat on the cream sofa and having a cup of tea forced into his hands. The detective inspector had said some things to him, but John hadn't been listening, the shock overwhelming him and muffling any outside sounds. He could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears and then Lestrade's voice was rising, asking if he was alright and pressing a warm hand to his forehead. John had said nothing, staring ahead as Donovan had come round to give Lestrade a report on Sherlock's suicide and look at him with pity. He had picked at the dinner Lestrade had made him later that evening, and the detective had gazed at him sympathetically as he lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes, having been forced to stay the night.

Once Lestrade had left the room, John had opened his eyes and remained awake for the next five hours, being too wired and still in shock to allow sleep to overcome him. He had managed to sleep for around three hours, though it was restless and quickly ended with Lestrade shaking him awake and calling his name after images of Sherlock plunging to the ground had caused him to shout aloud.

Neither of them spoke about it the next morning, and John finally found his voice as he sincerely thanked Lestrade for the hospitality before he left the apartment. With a sense of dread, he had walked back to 221B, the black door in front of him proving to be more than just a physical barrier. After going into the hall, Mrs Hudson had rushed in and hugged him tightly, whispering condolences whilst her mascara ran down her face. John had smiled wanly at her before making his way upstairs and into the rooms. It was as if Sherlock was still there; the skull was sat on the mantlepiece, watching as John shakily sat in his armchair; the violin was resting against the bookshelf in the corner, longing for someone to pluck at the strings or play a sorrowful melody; an experiment was set up on the kitchen table, halfway through an investigation and waiting for someone to continue it. And that was when the tears finally came. He didn't make any noises, no sobbing; he just let the tears stream down his cheeks for five minutes. There was a small beep in the corner of the room, and John looked up at the top of the bookshelf where he watched as the usually constant red light on the hidden camera (though John had known it had been there for a while) disappeared, signalling that the person on the other end had switched the device off, allowing John some privacy. He silently thanked Mycroft as tears continue to fall.

The funeral had been a week later. It was only a small gathering, with the closest family and friends there. The procession had gone by fairly quickly, the eulogy having been given by Mycroft after John had refused to do it, and soon he found himself stood outside, watching as the coffin was lowered to the ground. Once the ceremony had finished, he had remained where he was. After Lestrade had clapped him on the back, after Mrs Hudson had kissed him on the cheek, after Molly had flung her arms around him with something akin to guilt in her eyes, even after Mycroft had laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered an apology, John was finally left alone with Sherlock. He couldn't think of anything to say. He stayed standing there for a few more minutes, before muttering a "Goodbye, Sherlock," and walking away.

He continued to visit the grave, usually two or three times a week, though a part of him felt foolish for talking to a piece of marble. He remembered once telling Sherlock not to annoy anyone up there, before letting out a quiet sob and quietly asking his friend to come back. This was usually what happened. He would begin to talk about nothing in particular, perhaps complaining about the weather or wondering aloud why Molly kept shooting him worried glances. Then, tears would well up in his eyes and cascade down his face, resulting in John furiously wiping them away. After that, he would plead with Sherlock to come back to him, saying that he would do anything if it meant he could hear gunshots echoing around the apartment at God knows what time. Finally, he would softly apologise for complaining and leave the cemetery. His limp was slowly returning, only being slightly visible at first, but soon coming back full-force, forcing John to use his cane again. He barely noticed it, though. Grief was overwhelming him, and he no longer paid attention to things around him. He lost a considerable amount of weight, and dark circles were beginning to show under his eyes. For days on end he would remain locked up in his room, lying fully-clothed on his bed and staring up at the ceiling. Tears no longer came. He felt empty, a hollow shell. He was a broken man.

* * *

Every time John visited the cemetery, Sherlock would sit at a distance and watch him. Not because he was so egotistical that he wanted to hear what John said about his dead best friend, but because he was concerned about him. As the weeks progressed, Sherlock noticed the pronounced limp and the shaking of John's left hand whenever he touched the grave, and his gut would twist whenever he saw the doctor break down. He knew what he was doing was right (perhaps not morally, but certainly for John's safety) but it still hurt when John begged him to come back. Still, things had to be done.

Despite the circumstances, showing Mycroft he was still alive had been fairly funny. He was sure John would have giggled if he had been there. One minute, Mycroft was showing another rogue agent who had decided to work for him into his office, and the next, Sherlock Holmes was stood in the centre of the room, trying to fight the urge to smile. Mycroft had stared at him for a few moments in utter shock (the look on his face was _priceless_) before sinking into his chair and putting his head in his hands.

"One of these days, dear brother, you will finally succeed in giving me a heart attack." he had mumbled.

After the government official had poured himself a large glass of brandy, Sherlock had quickly explained how he survived before going into a more detailed plan on what needed to happen next. Mycroft had listened attentively as his younger brother mentioned the snipers assigned to Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John on that day, and nodded in agreement when the detective asked (somewhat reluctantly) for his help in tracking down the rest of Moriaty's criminal web.

"And, I presume, you are not planning on telling John you're alive?" he asked.

"Yes. He can't know, for his own good. Will you keep an eye on him?"

"Of course. I can assure you my top men will keep a full surveillance on him."

"Thank you. I very much appreciate it. I will text you the details later." With that, Sherlock had left the office.

A month later, he was scheduled on a flight to China, dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, with the new name of Marcus Gelding. He wasn't particularly happy about leaving England, or John for that matter, but it needed to be done. He couldn't return until he was absolutely certain the doctor was safe. Nothing else mattered. It was John who had made him into a better person, and he gave a silent promise that he would see his best friend again.

**A/N: I know this chapter was slightly shorter than the others, and I promise the next one will be up sooner rather than later. Reviews are always appreciated, and they always make my day x **


	7. Garridebs

**A/N: This is a remake of the original story, **_**The Three Garridebs**_**, which is definitely my favourite one. A slightly longer chapter with the same characters from the original, and I own nothing x **

_**Garridebs: **__"It was worth a wound – it was worth many wounds – to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask." John Watson, The Adventure of the Three Garridebs_

"Come again?"

"You heard me the first time, John. I'm not going to repeat myself."

"Yes, but I was rather hoping I misheard you, and you did not say we were going to _break into this man's house._"

"Well I'm glad to inform you that you're hearing is perfectly fine seeing as that is precisely what I said."

John Watson sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "_Why_ are we breaking into his house?"

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes and looked up from where he was crouched at the front door to John. "Because Evans must have left some evidence here, a planner or diary, revealing his murderous intentions." He re-focused his attention on the door, using a series of lock-picks to try and open it.

"You think that a few weeks ago, he would have written, _remember to kill someone today _in his planner?"

"That would be extremely good luck if it was true, but no, I doubt it. A planner would reveal to us the day he arrived in England from America, and we can also see if he was in the area when Rodger Presbury was killed."

"If you're so sure he killed Presbury, why is he still here? Why not go back to America?"

"Because he obviously wanted Presbury out of the way, probably because there is a safe or cellar which the dead man had hidden in his home."

John was beginning to catch on, "So rather than kill his roommate, he sent Nathan Garrideb on a wild goose chase after someone else with the same surname as him, with the promise of a rich industry should he succeed."

"Yes. You heard the story Nathan told us. John Garrideb, a.k.a. 'Killer' Evans, came to him with an elaborate tale of how his father had entrusted his business – which at the moment is thriving – to him. Apparently, the only way he could inherit it once his father was dead was if he found two other people with the name 'Garrideb' and split £15,000,000 with them, for whatever reason. So he came to England after no luck in America and found Nathan Garrideb. Now, he's supposedly found another Garrideb somewhere up north, and sent Nathan to find him."

"But there won't be anyone there?"

"No. The story is completely made up. Evans has been convicted of several murders on America, and fled to England."

"So what has that story got to do with Rodger Presbury?"

"Presbury was also a criminal. Lestrade gave me his file, and he's been sentenced for some petty crimes: theft, scams, arson, assault, etc etc. I'll bet Evans managed to contact him, and the two of them have thought up a new scheme for something or other. It will most likely be a scam, because Evans wouldn't need Presbury for theft or anything like that, and if he wanted someone dead then he's perfectly capable of doing that himself. No, Presbury is a tool. Working for the government means he has access to lots of databases, and can easily hack someone's computer for whatever reason. The reason he's dead is probably because he isn't needed anymore, so Evans killed him."

"Poor sod." John muttered.

Sherlock sent him a look. "Hardly. He's still a criminal."

"Yeah, but still, there was no reason for him to die."

"I'm sure Evans had plenty of reasons. Namely because–"

"Yes, alright. I get it." John interrupted. "How can you be so sure Evans isn't at home?"

"Well, number one because he would have opened the door by now after hearing us two, but otherwise because having told Nathan about this other Garrideb this morning, he won't want to wait too long in case Nathan comes back earlier. You saw this morning when Nathan gave Evans a key to his house, apparently already trusting him enough to look after his belongings. Undoubtedly Evans will strike tonight. Ah!" With a final _click_, the lock gave way and Sherlock pushed the door open.

The house was in complete darkness, with the stairs along the right wall leading upwards, though Sherlock ignored them and led John down the hall and left into the living room.

"We can't afford to use any light." Sherlock said quietly, "The risk of someone seeing us is too high, so keep your eyes open for a small, red book, probably old and worn and faintly smells of tobacco. "

"I'm not going to go around sniffing every book, if that's what you're implying." John replied. "And wouldn't a diary or planner be in his bedroom?"

Sherlock froze in his search and turned to him, a look of shock written upon his features. They soon changed, however, into a big grin.

"Well done, John. You're finally learning."

"Don't sound so surprised." he said as Sherlock grabbed his arm and led him back down the hall and up the stairs, taking care not to make too much noise. Without looking in any of the other rooms, Sherlock chose the door straight in front of him, leading John into the bedroom.

"Lucky guess." John muttered. Sherlock ignored him and began rooting around in the wardrobe.

"Quickly, John, look in the drawers." John moved over to the bed and opened the first drawer, rummaging amongst the socks in search of a small book. After finding nothing, he closed the drawer and moved on to the next one. Moving the different ties around, his fingers closed around something small and metal. Drawing his hand out, he moved over to the window and held up the object. It was a front door key, with a small tag hanging off, reading _Spare_. The handwriting was clearly Nathan Garrideb's.

"Sherlock." he croaked. The detective made no move to show he heard him; instead he was half-way under the bed with both arms spread out and trailing his fingers over the floor.

John coughed. "Sherlock." he said, a little louder this time.

"What is it?" his friend said impatiently from under the bed. "Have you found it?"

"No, it's... a key."

"A key?" Sherlock's head appeared from the side of the bed. Hastily, he scrambled to his feet and moved over to John. "A key to what?" He took it from John and also held it up. John voiced the detective's thoughts.

"A key to Nathan Garrideb's front door. The same key you said he gave to Evans this morning."

Sherlock looked down at him. "He hasn't come back yet." he whispered. John nodded.

"But he has now." a voice said from the door. Sherlock didn't need to turn around to know who was standing there. The American accent said it all. John was looking over his shoulder, back stiffening and a cold gaze settling over his eyes as the lights were switched on and footsteps padded into the centre of the room. Slowly, the detective turned around to see 'Killer' Evans, about six foot tall with short brown hair stood before him, a tight smile plastered on his face. Sherlock noticed John slowly reach behind him, presumably to rest his hand on his gun.

"I can't say I'm not surprised." Evans said. "I'll bet you saw right through me, Mr. Holmes. Played me from the first–"

Without warning he had whisked out a gun from his jacket and fired two shots. At the same time, Sherlock felt a pair of hands roughly shove him out of the way. He had barely touched the ground before he was up again and chasing Evans out of the room, his mind not registering the _thump_ behind him. He leapt down the stairs, jumping from the seventh one up and landing on Evans' back, sending them both crashing to the ground. Twisting the criminal onto his back, he pinned his arms and reached for his trousers, searching for a pair of handcuffs. Realising that it was John who had them, he kept his gaze on Evans as he held out his hand expectantly. When nothing happened, Evans began laughing.

"You didn't see your lackey go down? Man, and there I was thinking you were just a cold-hearted bastard. Oh, this is too good –" Before he could continue, Sherlock had roughly pulled him up and hit him as hard as he could across the face. The criminal let out a cry as his cheekbone cracked, before he was dropped non-too-carefully back down.

"You'd better hope he's alive," Sherlock growled, with fury in his eyes, "Otherwise you will not be leaving this house in one piece."

Evans blanched, and Sherlock slammed him against the radiator next to them, knocking him out cold.

Sherlock was racing up the stairs in seconds and barging into the bedroom, stopping close to where Evans had been a few minutes ago. He looked across to the back of the room, and his heart froze in its place at the small figure lying limp below the window.

John had his back to Sherlock, and as the detective rushed forward, he noted the imperceptible breaths that were far too shallow and slow for Sherlock's liking. He dropped down behind the doctor and gently eased him onto his back. Scanning his body, the sight of the deep crimson staining John's lower left side and slowly spreading farther caused Sherlock to close his eyes momentarily, before a quiet moan had them snapping back open again.

"John? John, can you hear me?"

John's eyelids fluttered, before opening slightly to reveal hazel coloured eyes gazing up at him. "Sh'lock?" he slurred, "You 'kay?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine." he answered. "Christ, John, why didn't you say anything?" As he spoke, he quickly placed his hands over John's wound in an attempt to staunch the blood.

"Din' want Evan's gettin' 'way."

"Who cares about him? You're much more important..."

A ghost of a smile flickered on John's face, before it was replaced by a grimace as a bolt of pain shot through him. Sherlock noticed this, and hastily pulled out his mobile, dialling a number and holding it to his ear.

"Lestrade? It's Sherlock. Listen, we've got Evans and – yes, he came back to the house. Forget that, I need you to – yes, I was wrong, but that really doesn't – what? Of course he's the killer! How do I..._ because he shot John_!" Silence, then..."No, no, he's still breathing, but I need you to call an ambulance... I haven't because I'm talking to you!... Oh, for God's sake, just do it and get over here quickly!" He cut off Lestrade and pocketed his phone, before turning his attention back to John, who had paled considerably since the phone call and was fighting to keep his eyes open, knowing as a doctor that he might never wake up if he closed them.

"John? Keep your eyes open, an ambulance will be here soon." he called, causing his flatmate to open his eyes more widely, determined to see through this conversation.

"Coulda said please." John muttered.

"What?"

"To 'strade. We're in the coun'ry side, Sh'lock. S'middle o' nowhere. S'gunna take time for 'im to get 'ere."

It was true. The case meant that Sherlock, John and later on Lestrade were in the Lake District. Currently, the small village where Evans' house was situated was surrounded by moorland and hills. They were practically isolated. Still, Sherlock scoffed. "I will never say please to him. Ever." he vowed.

"Lil' bit harsh." John answered.

Sherlock's lips twitched, "Well next time you'll be there to tell me off."

John hummed in response, but said nothing, his eyelids continuing to droop. The two of them sat in silence for some time, Sherlock desperately thinking of a way to keep John talking whilst pressing his hands against the blood, until John hissed quietly and shut his eyes.

"It will pass John, it will pass." Sherlock soothed. "Just stay with me." John didn't answer.

"John?" Sherlock shook him slightly, but the ex-army doctor's eyes remained closed.

"John, stay with me now." He moved one hand from John's side and rested it against his cold cheek, leaving a bloodied handprint on it, but that was the least of his worries. His other hand snaked into John's, squeezing the limp fingers tightly.

"Wake up. Come on, John, use some of that stubbornness in you and fight it." Nothing. John's head lolled to the side.

"Don't you dare, soldier, don't you dare!" Sherlock tapped his cheek, but John remained lifeless.

"John, please. Please, wake up. I... I need you." As the doctor's fingers slipped out of Sherlock's hand, the detective's phone rang, and he snatched it out of his pocket before it got to the second ring.

"Lestrade, you need to get here _now_. I don't know how much longer John can–"

"Sherlock, it's me," Mycroft's stern voice vibrated through the phone. "Detective Inspector Lestrade rang ahead to tell me there has been a very large car crash where he is, and all the ambulances are needed there."

"_What_? John's dying, Mycroft, he needs–"

"I know, Sherlock. There's a car outside, and we'll take John to a hospital." With that, the line went dead. Sherlock raised himself a few inches to peer out of the window. It was true; a large black Hummer SUV was parked out the front.

Without wasting any time, Sherlock scooped John into his arms and effortlessly lifted him up, the doctor's head lolling on his shoulder. He hurried out of the bedroom and made his way down the stairs, careful not to aggravate John's injury as he stepped over the unconscious criminal on the floor of the hall. As soon as he was outside, the boot of the SUV was instantly opened and two men dressed in black hopped out and ran towards Sherlock. They persuaded him to transfer John to them, and soon they were rushing back towards the back of the vehicle, more hands helping John in as they climbed in themselves. The front door was thrown open and Sherlock quickly clambered into the passenger seat. Barely giving him time to close the door, the car was off and racing through the village, soon coursing over the moors as they made their way to the nearest hospital. Behind Sherlock, about five men were rushing about John, hooking him up to an IV and a heart monitor whilst placing an oxygen mask over his face. The large space meant that they weren't cramped and were able to work quickly and efficiently. Sherlock watched as they quickly dressed the wound temporarily (it would be improved at the hospital) before looking across and noting with surprise the figure in the driving seat.

"Mycroft? Why are you here?"

The elder Holmes looked across at him briefly before facing the road again. "Someone needs to make sure the two of you don't get into trouble." he answered, waiting for the retort.

"Well you're a little late for that." There it was.

"I'm here, aren't I? A few more minutes and John would have been dead. Be grateful, for once in your life Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh I am. Believe me, I am." came the quiet reply.

Twenty minutes later and Mycroft had pulled up outside the Cumberland Infirmary. Paramedics were outside and quickly lay John onto a stretcher, whisking him away to surgery. Lestrade had arrived half an hour later, demanding to know some answers and getting nothing in reply. Both Sherlock and Mycroft had been silently sitting in the waiting room, ignoring anyone who tried to talk to them. Lestrade had soon given up, and collapsed into a chair next to Sherlock, running a shaky hand through his hair.

Three hours later a doctor had come to find them. All three men jumped up as soon as they saw him, and it was with a smile on his face as he told them that John would make a full recovery. The relief had flooded out of them, leaving them feeling drained and exhausted. Mycroft had then taken his leave, saying that he would get some men to pick up Evans, and Lestrade wasn't far behind, muttering about having to do paperwork. Sherlock had insisted that he see John, until finally the doctor relented and led him to his room.

Upon entering the room, he didn't hesitate for a second as he made a bee-line for John's bed and collapsed down in the chair next to it. The ex-army doctor looked so small and vulnerable in the bed, lines of worry and stubbornness having disappeared from his face and leaving him looking a lot healthier. Sherlock took John's hand and rested his head on the bed sheets beside John's arm, closing his eyes as exhaustion overwhelmed him.

* * *

Sherlock woke to the soothing sensation of fingers softly running through his hair, and he gazed up blearily to see John watching him with a small smile on his face.

"You're awake? How are you feeling?" Sherlock sat up a little straighter in his chair as he addressed John, not resisting the smile that crossed his features.

"Thirsty." John croaked. Immediately, Sherlock was up and pouring a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. He held it out to John who took it with a "cheers".

"Anything else?" Sherlock asked. John shook his head as he sipped his water, before considering again. "What happened to Evans?"

"At the moment, he's in hospital, but he'll soon be in jail."

"Good." John said. Sherlock hummed in agreement.

"You must be tired," Sherlock said, "Go back to sleep."

"No, m'okay." John mumbled, fighting off a yawn.

Sherlock smiled. "Sleep, John. God knows you deserve it. And thank you, by the way." John raised his eyebrows as he settled back against the pillows. "For saving my life. It hasn't gone unappreciated." John gave a smile in return before closing his eyes and succumbing to sleep.


	8. Harbour

_**Harbour: **__A sheltered port where ships can take on or discharge cargo._

John had never been to the Poplar Dock Marina before. The harbour was nice enough, with boats of different sizes lining the numerous gangplanks that led off from the walkway, but under the circumstances he was quickly beginning to dislike it. For example, the seventy-odd boats there made it increasingly difficult to find their suspect and keep on his tail, and the number of commuters blocking their path certainly did not help, yelling at the two of them as they sprinted past, knocking over a load of gear every so often, or even a person. Still, it wasn't as if Sherlock was going to apologise, so it was up to John to murmur a quick "Sorry," and sprint after the detective.

It was clear their suspect had also never been to the Marina. After running all the way down the walkway, he took a sharp left and ran down the last gangplank. Apparently he wasn't aware of how harbours worked, for he skidded to a stop at the end with a look of shock on his face, seemingly incredulous that the gangplank suddenly ended, leaving nothing but an open area of murky water before him.

Sherlock had slowed his pace when the suspect (now clearly the murderer) had stopped, and slowly advanced towards him. John had yet to reach the two of them, having been obstructed by some pompous sailor, demanding to know why Sherlock had collided into his wife who was sat on the edge of the walkway sobbing at her bruised dignity.

The killer now turned back to Sherlock, a panicked expression on his face. Sherlock held out his hands in a placating gesture, all the while continuing towards him. As if having only realised, the suspect removed a long knife from his pocket, shakily waving it at Sherlock. The detective almost rolled his eyes at the action, taking out John's gun and pointing it firmly at the man.

"There's no point, Kerridge." Sherlock called. "The police are already on their way."

At that point, John rounded the corner, finally managing to shake off the sailor. His eyes widened when he saw Kerridge with his knife and Sherlock pointing a gun at him, and instinctively reached for his own, before realising that Sherlock had it. Silently cursing the detective, John kept his hand there, as if to imply that he still had a weapon. He also slowly drew out his phone, and began to dial DI Lestrade's number behind his back. Kerridge swallowed visibly at the sudden appearance of John, and the knife in his hand began to shake more. Slowly, he began to lower it, knowing there was no way he could win. Sherlock moved towards him, still wary, and quickly stood behind him, rummaging in his pockets for handcuffs.

Suddenly, Kerridge whipped round, bringing the butt of the knife crashing down on Sherlock's head. Stunned, the detective staggered backwards, before losing his balance and toppling into the water. John let out a cry and rushed forward, dropping his phone before tackling Kerridge before the man had a chance to turn back to face him. He pried the knife away from the criminal's grip, but not before he was slashed across his cheek. He tried to hold Kerridge down on his stomach as he reached for his own handcuffs. Drawing them out of his pocket, he snapped them over Kerridge's wrists, but he suddenly hesitated, wondering what he was going to do with the suspect now that he was handcuffed. As if having read his mind, a voice spoke up from behind him.

"Give him here; we can tie him to one of the posts." John turned his head sharply to see the sailor he had previously argued with standing before him, a long length of rope in his hands.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" John asked hurriedly.

"Robert Price, at your service." The sailor said, offering a clumsy salute. "If I'm honest, I came to find you in order to give you a piece of my mind, but then I saw this guy hit your friend and realised you weren't i, so I turned to my wife and said–"

"Yeah, that's great, and I really appreciate it, but I need to get Sherlock. Can I leave him–" he shook Kerridge in his grip, "–with you?"

"Of course. Hurry, though." John nodded and quickly let go of Kerridge. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robert reach forward and roughly haul the criminal to the nearest post. Leaving it to him, though, John ran forward and without a moment's hesitation, dived into the cold waters of the Thames.

The impact hit him hard; the icy temperatures scratching at his face as he pushed deeper and deeper down. The November weather did nothing to help him as he squinted through the water, desperately looking for a sign that Sherlock was here. He continued down, before noting that his jacket was only making him slower. Furiously pushing back up to the surface, he breathed in a large gulp of fresh air and hurriedly removed his bomber jacket. Robert looked up from where he was tying up Kerridge, and started forward, squinting at the distant figure of John.

"Have you got him?" he called, cupping his hands around his mouth.

"DOES IT LOOK LIKE I'VE GOT HIM?" the ex-soldier shouted back, before quickly plunging back down again, finding that his movements were a little smoother. Panic was beginning to well up in his chest, but he determinedly pushed the fear aside, vowing not to return to the surface until he found Sherlock. The cold was continuing to seep through his skin, causing him to lose his focus more than once. He stayed where he was for some time, treading in the middle of the water and frantically trying to think of something. Unable to come up with anything else, he ploughed further down, hopes of finding Sherlock withering away the further he went. He was just beginning to give up and rush to the surface, when his fingers mercifully closed on a thick, Belstaff coat.

Almost letting out a cry of relief, John pulled Sherlock to his chest, looping an arm around the worryingly limp detective and swimming as fast as he could to the surface. He considered getting rid of Sherlock's coat, but a tiny voice inside him said that his flatmate would be none too pleased about it. It was his favourite coat after all. But a responding voice argued that Sherlock would also be none too pleased if he were to drown in favour of a replaceable coat. Sherlock was not replaceable.

Before he could make a decision, John's head finally broke the surface, and he quickly heaved Sherlock closer to him, making sure the detective's head was above the water. He swam back towards the gangplank, where Robert was waiting near the edge with his arms outstretched. John grasped the wooden platform and lifted Sherlock up, and Robert grasped a hold of his coat and dragged him away from the edge as John hauled himself up, coughing and spluttering as he did so. He crawled over to Sherlock, who was lying on his side, and quickly rolled him onto his back, taking off the Belstaff as he did so.

"Robert, can you go and call an ambulance please?" the sailor nodded and was about to hurry away before John called him back.

"Wait! Can you also ring Lestrade and tell him what happened? Ask him to come over."

Robert blanched. "Lestrade?" he asked, nonplussed.

"Oh, sorry. His number's on my phone which is..." John paused, mid-way through scrunching the coat up and placing it under Sherlock's head. "...somewhere on this gangplank." He scoured the wood for the small device before letting out an exclamation and pointing to it a few feet away. Robert followed his direction, and nodded in acknowledgement.

As he ran off, John turned back to Sherlock and placed both his hands over the detective's chest.

_Thirty compressions, John, _the doctor in him said. Nodding to himself, he began pushing down on his chest, quick and firm, letting Sherlock's chest recoil as he did so. He counted in his head, forcing himself not to panic as he reached thirty.

_Mouth to mouth. Quickly!_

John bent down and pressed his lips to Sherlock's in an attempt to breathe for them both. He did this twice before returning to compressions, counting in his head again.

_Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen_... "Come on, Sherlock." John muttered.

_Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three_... "Breathe, dammit." His voice began to rise as he continued.

_Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty_... "Sherlock!" He applied mouth to mouth again, unable to prevent the overwhelming panic welling in his chest.

"Come on, you arrogant sod." _Five, six, seven_.

"Don't even _think_ about leaving me!" He was beating down harder and harder on Sherlock, as if he could wake the detective up this way. Those pale lips were beginning to turn blue, and through the soaked shirt John could feel Sherlock getting colder by the second.

"Seriously, Sherlock," he could hear his voice beginning to break, but he paid it no heed, "You're not allowed to do this to me. Not again." Tears were pricking at the corners of his eyes as he pressed his mouth to Sherlock's. His flatmate remained unmoving; his body jerking with every compression John gave, and continuing to stay unresponsive to what the doctor was saying.

"Please." John whispered. "Please, Sherlock. Just stay with me." Eventually, his fear turned into frustration, and he began to shout at the limp detective.

"Sherlock Holmes, don't you dare! Are you listening to me? You are _not _allowed to leave me!" Silence.

"I'll call Mycroft! Don't think I won't. He'll come here... and drone at you forever, then he'll turn on me, which will make me turn on you, and I'll drone even louder at you forever!" He realised he wasn't making any sense whatsoever, but before he could make amends, people in green uniforms were shoving him roughly out of the way and placing medical equipment down next to Sherlock. John fell backwards, and hands on both of his arms helped him up. He looked around to see Lestrade and Robert Price both gently leading him to the side, letting the paramedics do their work. The three of them stood and watched silently as one of the paramedics put a defibrillator next to Sherlock and ripped open his shirt, placing one electrode to the right of Sherlock's heart, and another on the left side of his body. Within seconds, the paramedic was rubbing two paddles together, then firmly placing them on the electrodes, causing Sherlock's body to jolt violently as an electric current was passed through him.

The paramedic repeated this action one, two, three more times until finally, _finally_, Sherlock breathed.

Sherlock gave a loud gasp as a bout of water erupted from his mouth, and the paramedics hastily turned him on his side, removing the electrodes as they did so. John started forwards as Sherlock took shaky breaths, eyes still closed, but Lestrade kept a firm grip on him, keeping him back and whispering soothingly. Robert Price clapped him on the back in relief, and the doctor let out a wobbly sigh, smiling slightly.

"I – er, I'd best be off." Robert mumbled.

John turned to him. "Thank you so much. I honestly don't know what I would've done without you."

Robert smiled his appreciation, handed back the doctor's phone, clapped John one last time and headed back down the gangplank towards his boat.

"Do you know him?" Lestrade asked as the paramedics loaded Sherlock onto a stretcher.

"I met him... twenty-five minutes ago." John answered, signalling the end of conversation as he stooped to collect Sherlock's coat before quickly catching up with the paramedics and walking hurriedly alongside Sherlock as the medics made their way back down the walkway and up the stairs to the waiting ambulance. Whilst they bundled Sherlock into the vehicle, John attempted to climb in with him, but strong hands roughly pushed him back. Glaring at them, he was about to try again, but Lestrade had caught up and gently manoeuvred him away.

"Come on, we'll take the car and meet them there." Reluctantly, John submitted and followed the Detective Inspector to his car. Lestrade asked a few questions during the trip, and went on to explain that Kerridge had been taken into custody. At one point, when they were driving in silence, John's phone chirped, and with a sense of dread, he opened the text message.

_Care to explain? – MH_

"How could he _possibly_ know?" John muttered to himself, incredulous.

"Who's that?" Lestrade asked.

"One Mycroft Holmes." he answered.

Lestrade smiled. "He's a Holmes, I'm sure he has his ways."

John hummed in agreement as they pulled up outside St. Bartholomew's hospital. They rushed into the reception area and almost collided with the doctor who was waiting for them there.

"Mr. Watson?" he asked.

"Doctor." John corrected.

"Of course," the doctor smiled tightly, giving a couldn't-care-less look to him. "I've been told to inform you that Mr. Holmes regained consciousness during the ambulance ride, and you are free to see him. He has a mild concussion, but with a bit of rest he'll be fine." The doctor hesitated, "Has anyone treated you?" he gestured to the slash on John's cheek, which now had blood streaming from it. John wiped it and gave a small smile.

"I'm fine." he assured. The doctor merely harrumphed in response and led them down a spotless corridor. At the end was an open door, and the doctor stood aside as John and Lestrade entered Sherlock's room.

The detective was sat on the side of his bed, still in his wet clothes and swinging his legs to and fro in a bored manner. When John and Lestrade entered, he looked up sharply, his face brightening ever so slightly at the sight of them.

"Hey," John said, moving to stand in front of Sherlock and grinning. "How are you feeling?"

"Perfectly fine." The detective replied nonchalantly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

John smiled, despite how infuriating Sherlock was being. "Can't think why." he muttered.

Sherlock scowled at him. Lestrade stepped forward hesitantly.

"Sherlock, I need to get a statement from you. If you could just–"

"I will give you my statement when I'm feeling better." Sherlock interrupted.

"But you just said–"

Sherlock gave a loud groan and pressed his hand to his forehead. John, suppressing a chuckle, stood next to Sherlock.

"Lestrade, I think it would be best if you came another day. Sherlock is still feeling the effects of concussion, and any exertion would only add to his discomfort." he said in his best doctor voice.

Lestrade stared at him for a few moments, before sighing heavily, knowing it was a lost cause. He gave a "Goodbye," to John and nodded at Sherlock, then took his leave.

After the DI left, Sherlock fixed his gaze onto John. "What happened to your cheek?" he asked.

"Kerridge managed to get me." John said, covering his cheek as he spoke and wiping away anymore blood.

"You alright?"

"Fine." he replied.

The two stayed silent for a while, John still smiling slightly. Sherlock watched him, and scowled again.

"Why are you smiling?" he asked.

John sighed. "It's nothing, I..." he hesitated, closing his eyes briefly and clearing his throat, "...I'm just glad you're OK." he finished, looking up at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked down at his swinging legs. "I'm, er... I'm sorry if I frightened you." he said quietly.

John scoffed and looked away. "It's hardly your fault you were knocked out. And anyhow, you're alive, so there's nothing to worry about."

"Yes, I believe I have you to thank for that." Sherlock said. John looked back at him.

"Me? It was the paramedics who used the defibrillator to re-start your heart. The best I could do was chest compressions."

"And you also dove into those freezing waters and pulled me out. And if you hadn't applied compressions, then we most likely wouldn't be here having this conversation. It was you who saved my life, John." Sherlock said.

John smiled appreciatively and cleared his throat again. "Yes, well... let's hope it doesn't become a common occurrence, hmm?"

Sherlock grinned and hopped off the bed, albeit a little wobbly, before starting towards the door.

"Sherlock, wait." John called. The detective turned back and John held out the object in his arm. "Don't you want your coat? It's freezing outside and your clothes are still soaked. At least this is dry now."

"You're clothes are wet, too," Sherlock retorted, and then another thought crossed his mind. "Why didn't you get rid of my coat when you grabbed me? Surely it slowed you down."

"Well, yes, but I–"

"You kept my coat but you got rid of yours," Sherlock said, slowly advancing towards him as John became subject to the detectives piercing gaze. John sighed as Sherlock's dramatic flair made an appearance. "That jacket was your favourite, you never go anywhere without it, and yet you discard it when you tried to find me. Why did you keep mine?" Sherlock was towering over John now, inches apart and watching him closely.

"Sherlock, that jacket hardly matters if it's your life on the line." John said quietly. "I realise that I might have put you in jeopardy by keeping your coat, but I know you like it, so..."

"So?" Sherlock prompted.

"So I kept it."

"Even though you might possibly have died as well." the detective said with a frown.

John sighed. "Yes, but that hardly matters–"

"Don't ever do that again, John Watson." Sherlock said firmly. "Yes, this coat is one I am fond of, but I would hardly care if it was lost if that meant you would be safe. I don't ever want you doing something as foolish as that again, do you hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you." John said with a slight smile. "Can we please go home now?"

Sherlock agreed and soon they were both sat in a cab on their way back to Baker Street, the Belstaff folded on Sherlock's lap. He had refused to wear it, seeing as John was also without a jacket, and tried to ignore the winter chill that the cab could not prevent from getting in. Noticing the slight shiver from the detective, John rolled his eyes. Now who was being foolish?


	9. Illness

**A/N: This is a continuation of the last chapter x**

_**Illness: **__A disease or period of sickness affecting the body or mind._

"Did you just sneeze?"

Sherlock Holmes sniffed, "No." he replied.

"Have you got a cold?"

"Absolutely not," was the retort.

"Do you feel ill?"

"Why would I?"

"Well, you _were_ underwater in the freezing waters of the Thames for four minutes. Technically, you should be dead, so a cold really isn't very surprising."

"I can assure you that I am very much alive, and I do _not _have a cold."

John Watson rolled his eyes and got up from the sofa, moving over to his flatmate who was lounging in his armchair and reading a book. Before Sherlock had a chance to do anything, the doctor placed a hand over the detective's forehead, and frowned.

"Your forehead's warmer than it should be." he muttered.

"No it's not." Sherlock shot back.

John straightened and gave him a condescending glare. "Doctor, remember?" he said, pointing to himself as he walked to the kitchen and flicked the kettle switch, waiting for the water to boil. "Do you want some aspirin?" he asked.

Sherlock snorted, looking back down at his book. "Colds are viral; aspirin won't help."

John sighed. "I know that, but it might help to prevent your fever."

Sherlock looked up at him. "I don't have a fever."

"You will in a few hours."

"I highly doubt that." the detective muttered to himself.

"Why do I bother?" John said to himself.

"Because–"

"It was a rhetorical question! Now are you going to read your book or sit there and annoy me?" he asked as he prepared the two cups of tea and headed back into the living room.

"I can do both." John smiled despite himself as he put the tea on the floor next to Sherlock's chair and made his way back to the sofa.

"Maybe you should go to bed. It's late as it is." he said, sipping his drink.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, I am perfectly fine. I do not need the likes of you telling me when to go to sleep. It is extremely irritating and I do not find it at all helpful, so please keep out of my business."

John closed his eyes. "You are probably the lowest person I know."

Sherlock scoffed. "That's rich, coming from you." he said as he turned a page of his book nonchalantly, though he let out a rather indignant squawk when a cushion hit his face.

"Well, I'm off to bed." John said, putting his unfinished drink back in the kitchen and heading upstairs whilst pointedly ignoring the detective. Sherlock smirked and put his book down, picking up the cup of tea from the floor and drinking it now that it was relatively warm. As he stood up, a wave of dizziness rushed through him and he wobbled on the spot, before regaining his balance and blinking at the spots that clouded his vision. _Damn that doctor_. He staggered down the hall to his bedroom, leaning against the doorway before making a beeline for his bed, collapsing on top of the covers at first, the sheer exhaustion of his movements draining him, until he raised himself a little and crawled under his covers and soon drifted off to sleep.

* * *

John shot up in bed suddenly, gasping and panting frantically as he looked around his surroundings. Finding that he was still in his room, and not in the Afghanistan desert, he began to focus on slowing his breathing. _Just a nightmare_, he told himself, until without any warning Sherlock's voice filled his head, _perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go a little deeper_. He silently told himself to shut up as he glanced at his alarm clock. 3:00AM. With a sigh, he threw back the covers of his duvet and got unsteadily to his feet, his vision blurry as he stood too quickly.

He made his way downstairs and padded into the kitchen, reaching into the cupboards for a glass and filling it with water. He leant against the counter as he sipped his drink, letting his eyes roam about the apartment. He paused in his drinking, however, when he heard a faint moan from Sherlock's room. Placing his glass down, he cautiously made his way down the corridor until he was hovering outside the door, unsure whether to go in or not. He pressed his ear closer, and could hear rustling from the bed and more moaning, and when his doctor's instincts overrode him, John peered in to find Sherlock spread out on his bed, his covers tangled around him as he tossed his head from side to side and mumble incoherently. Cursing, John hurried over and placed a hand across Sherlock's forehead. His brow was on fire. Cursing again, he rushed into the en suite bathroom and managed to find a flannel. After soaking it in some cold water, he made his way back to Sherlock. Sitting on the edge of the bed, John placed one hand on Sherlock's shoulder in an attempt to calm him, whilst placing the flannel across the detective's head. Instinctively, Sherlock flinched, but he soon relaxed slightly at the touch, inclining his head towards John in an attempt to find some more of the coolness that was spreading over him. After a while, his eyelids began to flutter, and big grey orbs stared up at his flatmate through the darkness. John raised his eyebrows.

"Are you willing to accept that you have a fever now?" he asked.

"S'pose." Sherlock mumbled. John smiled slightly.

"Do you want some water?" At Sherlock's nod, he quickly went into the kitchen and prepared a glass. He arrived back in the bedroom to find Sherlock sat up in his bed and rubbing his tired eyes. He mumbled a "thanks" as he received the water, and slouched slightly as the fresh water ran down his dry throat. Having downed the whole drink, he gave it back to John, who put it on the bedside table, and wiped his mouth.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asked. "And please don't say that you're fine, because there's no way I'm going to believe you." he added before Sherlock could answer.

The detective sighed in defeat. "Feverish." he answered. "Happy?"

"Not particularly." John answered as he flipped the flannel and pressed it against Sherlock's forehead again. "I wish you'd had this epiphany earlier rather than make fun of my height."

Sherlock gave a small smile. "You walked right into it, I couldn't resist."

"Hmm. The great Sherlock Holmes seems to have found a sense of humour. Who knew?" he said sarcastically.

"Yes, well I–" The detective stopped suddenly, staring off into space, though still apparently concentrating on something. John watched him suspiciously, until his eyes widened.

"Bathroom. Now!" he said as he threw the covers back and helped Sherlock out of the bed. They got about halfway across the room before Sherlock stopped and threw up all over the floor. John grimaced and rubbed the detective's back as he waited for him to finish.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have drunk all that water at once. It can't have helped." John said helpfully. Sherlock straightened and gave him a weak glare, looking paler than usual. The doctor guided him to the bathroom and made him sit on the toilet, placing a bucket between his legs and ordering him to stay there.

He walked back into the bedroom and repressed the urge to gag. He hurried back into the kitchen and grabbed a large handful of paper towels, before making his way back into Sherlock's room. He then placed each towel over the mess on the floor and pressed down slightly, trying not to spread the vomit. After that, he disposed of the towels and poured dry cleaning fluid over the stain. Leaving it there, John went back to Sherlock in the bathroom to see the detective brushing his teeth vigorously. John waited until he finished until addressing him.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

"A little."

"No doubt you've picked up a bug from the Thames." Sherlock harrumphed in response.

"Do you want to sleep on the couch?"

At Sherlock's nod, John guided him into the living room and settled the detective down on the sofa before fetching another glass of water and handing it to him.

"Don't drink it too–"

"Yes, I know." Sherlock snapped as he sipped at the drink. John took it from him after a few gulps then put his hand to Sherlock's forehead again.

"Your temperature's still high." he muttered. "I'm afraid there's nothing much we can do except wait it out. Try to sleep."

Sherlock said nothing as he lay down on the couch and closed his eyes. John knew the detective didn't like having to rely on people, so he allowed him some space. He soon cleaned up Sherlock's room, though there was still a smell. Not knowing too much about house cleaning, he resulted in opening all the windows and hoped the smell would disappear soon. When he came back into the living room, Sherlock was asleep. There was a light sheen of sweat on his brow, and the faintest of shivers were wracking his body. John laid an extra blanket over him and checked his brow again. The temperature hadn't fallen, but at least it hadn't risen. Vowing to keep an eye on him, John settled into his armchair and picked up his book. He managed to read about ten pages before drifting asleep, the book falling to the floor.

* * *

It was late morning the next day when John felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. Jerking awake, he looked up to see Sherlock's icy eyes watching him. The detective gave a small smile when he saw recognition gleam in John's eyes as he stepped back.

"Sherlock," John said, rubbing his eyes, "How are you feeling?" Without waiting for an answer, John got up and touched his friend's forehead. Definitely cooler.

"Better." Sherlock answered. "Though still a little queasy."

"Well then sit back down before you throw up on my feet." John said as he steered him back to the sofa. "Do you know what time it is?" he asked while he prepared two cups of tea in the kitchen.

"11 o'clock."

"_What_? I should be at work!" John abandoned the tea and quickly made his way towards the stairs, only to be intercepted by Sherlock.

"Sherlock, now's not the time for games." he said in a strained voice.

"You shouldn't go to the clinic today, John." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, I can't look after you 24/7. Mrs Hudson's at home today, she can give you anything you need." He attempted to push by, but the detective had a strong grip on his arms.

"I didn't mean because of me," he said whilst rolling his eyes, "I meant because it is obvious you have got some sort of illness, and it wouldn't be good to expose your patients, would it?"

"What? I'm not ill, I–"

"John, I wasn't the only one to take a dip in the Thames, then forgo my jacket. Your face is paler than it usually is, and..." Sherlock reached down and held up one of John's hands, "... your hands are shaking slightly and are also a little clammy. Ergo, I suggest you sit down whilst I take up your offer and fetch Mrs Hudson." They both remained standing. "Sit!" John obeyed, slightly shocked. He didn't _feel _sick, though he did have a headache and was experiencing dizziness every time he moved too quickly. Confirming Sherlock's diagnosis, he put his head in his hands and groaned. Great, and there he was hoping he was immune to the murky waters of the Thames. A strong smell made him raise his head, and he smiled when he saw Sherlock stood in front of him, holding out a steaming cup of tea. Having given it to John, the detective plopped down on the sofa next to him and switched on the TV, then spread the blanket over both their laps. Whatever illnesses they had, they would ride it out together.

**A/N: Cheesy, I know, but I couldn't resist. Please review x **


	10. Jinx

**A/N: This will make references to the _Devil's Foot, _just in case anything sounds familiar x**

_Jinx: __An unlucky force, person or thing._

"Stop it, John."

"Stop what? I'm driving, I'm not doing anything else."

"I can hear you thinking. You're being too noisy."

"Oh? What was I thinking?"

"You were complaining to yourself that it was too hot and you wished you had worn shorts instead of jeans."

Silence, then... "How on earth did you know that?"

Sherlock Holmes smirked from the passenger side of the car he had 'borrowed' from Mycroft as John Watson stared ahead at the road in silent amazement. They were currently driving along E Florence Avenue in Los Angeles, searching for their client's house. Josie Marx, a small, red-headed woman who looked to be about thirty, had travelled all the way to Baker Street to present her case, and although Sherlock had immediately dismissed it, John had managed to persuade him, stating that she had made a lot of sacrifices and they should at least grant her this. Still, Sherlock had sulked throughout the 10 hour flight and hadn't missed an opportunity to tell John that this was a complete waste of time. _Haunted house indeed_, he thought to himself. Ms. Marx had literally thrown herself at Sherlock's feet and begged that he find the "spirits that continued to terrify her." Sherlock had very bluntly told her that there were no such things as ghosts, but when she had described her husband's suspicious death, he had to admit that his interest had been piqued. Stephen Marx's body had been found by his six-year-old daughter in his drawing room, which had been locked from the inside, as had all the windows. Little Milly Marx had managed to find the key to the locked room and had walked in to find her father sat slumped in his armchair by the fireplace, a glass of brandy resting slack in his grip. Of course, Milly hadn't sensed anything was wrong, until she moved closer to her father and shook his knees in an attempt to get his attention. She had only begun to feel scared when she glanced up at his face to see him retaining an expression of utmost horror - a convulsion of terror which had sent the little girl screaming for her babysitter.

Finally, they arrived at Josie Marx's house. When they had first met her, Sherlock had deduced that she was exceedingly rich, and that statement was definitely not untrue. The _mansion_ they drew up alongside of was pure white, with long pillars decorating the front and a large water fountain placed on the front lawn, a wide gravel road circling it. As the two of them got out from the car, the large double doors opened to reveal Ms. Marx as she hurried down the seven steps to meet them.

"Mr. Holmes," she said as she shook his hand, ignoring John's outstretched one, "Thank you so much for agreeing to come out here. I don't know what I would have done without you."

Sherlock was about to give a curt reply when a quiet, "Mommy?" from the door sent three heads swivelling towards the voice. Milly Marx was half hidden behind one of the doors, her copper hair hanging in curls around her shoulders and clutching a small teddy bear to her. Her simple and plain white dress proclaimed her innocence, and made her look very vulnerable. Sherlock eyed her critically.

"This is your daughter?" Ms. Marx nodded. "She found the body?" Josie flinched at the word body, but nodded all the same. Sherlock took a few strides forward and crouched down in front of Milly.

"Miss Marx," (John immediately rolled his eyes) "I'm going to need you to tell me exactly what happened on the night you found your father's dead body." Milly frowned at him, before looking uncertainly at her mother. She nodded encouragingly.

"I, um, went to find my dad, because it was my bedtime and he always reads _Each Peach Pear Plum _to me. The, er, room downstairs was locked, so I found a spare key in his bedroom, 'cause he told me it was there if I ever needed it. Then-"

"You went in our room without asking?" Ms. Marx asked coldly. Milly hesitated, then nodded slowly. Ms. Marx opened her mouth to say something to her daughter, but John quickly interrupted her.

"Ms. Marx, if Milly didn't go into your room, who knows how much longer your husband would be rotting downstairs?" John's voice was very stern, and even Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. Ms. Marx glared at him, before relenting and gesturing to Sherlock to continue.

"What happened next... Milly?"

Milly seemed to have recovered somewhat from the outburst she was waiting to hear from her mother, and now looked back at Sherlock. "When I went into the room with the big fire, Dad was sitting in his chair next to it. I couldn't see him very well because there were no lights on, but the fire was lit so when I moved closer I could see his face... He looked very scared, as if someone had frightened him." She paused. "He frightened me, and that made me scream. Ellie came and found me."

"Ellie is...?" Sherlock looked up at Ms. Marx.

"... Our babysitter. She looks after Milly when I'm busy." Beat. "I'm sure you don't want to listen to a child, Mr. Holmes, so why don't I show you the rest of the house, and then the drawing-room where my husband was? Perhaps then you'll be able to sense the spirits."

"Thank you, Ms. Marx." Sherlock said with false politeness as he straightened and followed Ms. Marx into the house, leaving John outside on the steps. He was about to follow the detective when he felt something tugging at his jacket. He glanced down to see Milly looking up at him with big brown eyes. He gave her a warm smile and sat down on the steps next to her. She followed suit and shuffled closer to him.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

"John." he answered. He gestured to her teddy. "What's your friend's name?"

Milly smiled down at her bear. "Rosaline."

John raised his eyebrows. "That's a big name. Where did you learn it?"

"It's Daddy's friend's name."

"Your daddy had a lady friend?" Milly nodded. "I see. Did he see her often?"

"He went out every week with her."

"Did he tell you?" Milly shook her head. "Did you seen them hug or kiss?"

"Daddy kissed her once. I don't know if they've hugged, though."

"That's OK. Does your mum know?"

"I don't know. I don't think she does."

"Do you like Rosaline?"

"Yes. She buys me presents and takes me to the zoo. Do you have a lady friend?"

John smiled. "Yes, her name's Sarah."

"That's nice. Where does she live?"

"She lives in England. I live there too."

"Is that why you talk funny?" she asked.

John laughed. "Yes, that's why I talk funny. Have you ever been to England?"

Milly shook her head. "Mommy goes there a lot for her work, but I've never been. Ellie has said that she'll take me one day."

"Ellie looks after you?"

Milly nodded. "She plays tea party with me. Do you want to play with me?" She suddenly perked up at the idea.

John hesitated. "I, er, I don't know." He looked inside the house in time to see Sherlock swooping into the drawing room, followed by Ms. Marx, who didn't even glance at her daughter.

"Sure, why not?" John gave Milly a big grin as she grabbed his hand and led him into the house and up the grand staircase, then down a plush corridor into her room. Her bedroom was very big, with a light pink carpeted floor and a big white bed in the middle of the space. A purple rug sat to one side of the room, where a number of toys were lying on top. Milly led John over and sat down, looking at him expectantly. He sat cross-legged next to her as she thrust a teacup and saucer into his hand and pretended to pour tea into it from a white china teapot. She chatted to him about random subjects, while he smiled and nodded in response.

The party was very long. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but was surprised that Milly had not yet tired.

"Having fun?" A voice from behind made John start, and he spun round to see Sherlock leaning against the doorway, a smile on his face.

"Yes, thank you." John replied. "Excuse me." he said to Milly, who nodded in permission before resuming her conversation with Rosaline.

John got up from the floor and stood opposite Sherlock. "Found any ghosts, then? Did the ghouls scare Marx to death?" he asked. Sherlock scowled at him.

"No, surprisingly enough. Though I did find a strange ash amongst the fire in the drawing room."

John frowned. "Could it be poison?"

"Possibly. If the poison was combustible it's likely that Marx inhaled it, thus causing him to fall unconscious and then die." Sherlock answered.

"Do we have any suspects?"

"Ms. Marx explained to me that recently there have been a number of investors interested in this property, even though the house isn't for sale. She has given me four names who keep persisting in their offers, and if Mr. Marx was refusing them, it might be worthwhile talking to them."

"Hmm. Sounds strange. Don't forget that Ms. Marx is a suspect too."

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

John lowered his voice, conscious of Milly in the room. "Mr. Marx was having an affair. If Josie found out, what's to say she wouldn't kill him?"

"How do you know he had an affair?"

"Milly told me."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "The six-year-old?"

"Yes." John said defensively. "She's very smart for her age. She told me she'd seen her father kiss this 'Rosaline'. She also said that the woman took her out to the zoo and bought her things. If Mr. Marx was looking to divorce Josie, she might have killed him in a fit of anger."

"What about the child? Are you sure Mr. Marx would want to split up his family, leaving his daughter behind?"

John shook his head. "I'll bet he would try to gain custody of Milly. Ms. Marx is a horrible mother to her. She doesn't pay Milly any attention. You remember that when Ms. Marx told us about how Milly found her father, she said that her daughter cried for Elllie the babysitter, not her own mother. What does that say about Josie?"

Sherlock nodded. "It's a possibility. We'll talk to the investors first, then back here for Ms. Marx. Are you going to say goodbye to your friend?" he finished with a smirk.

John straightened. "Yes, I am." he said confidently. He moved back over to Milly, and crouched down next to her.

"Milly, my friend and I have to go now, but we'll be back later on, alright?"

Milly looked up at him and gave him a smile. "Alright, I'll walk you to the front door." With that, she got up and took John's hand, leading him out of the room. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock in a _told you so_ manner, who rolled his eyes and followed them along the corridor and down the staircase. Before they could walk out, a voice from upstairs stopped them.

"You're leaving so soon?" Sherlock and John turned around to see Ms. Marx leaning against the banister, a big pout on her face. "But I haven't shown you the kitchen, where the ghost activity is most prominent."

Sherlock sighed dramatically and John elbowed him. "Just do it." he muttered. "She won't stop pestering you otherwise, and it's not like this day could get any worse."

Sherlock looked down at him with a small smile. "You've jinxed it now," he said with a twinkle in his eye as he met Ms. Marx at the bottom of the stairs and followed her towards the back of the house. Milly tugged on John's hand.

"What do you want to do now?" she asked.

"Why don't you show me around your house?" he asked.

"OK." She led him along the hallway and pointed at doors as she went by. "That's the coat room, that's the bathroom, that's the cellar, that's-" Milly was cut off by a deafening rumbling noise, and all the objects in the lobby began to shake. The chandelier above them rattled, and plaster from the ceiling fell from above. _It had to be when we were here_, John thought to himself over the mighty ruckus of the earthquake. More parts of the ceiling were falling, and John was torn between rushing to the kitchen to find Sherlock or finding safety for himself. When the six-year-old girl next to him clung to his leg, he knew there was no choice in the matter. Praying that Sherlock would be OK, he swooped down and scooped Milly into his arms before rushing to the door where the basement was. He ran as quickly as he could down the stairs and into the small, bare room. Before he could do anything else, the wooden timbers from the ceiling crashed to the ground around them, and John dived to the floor, tucking Milly beneath him as the world around them collapsed and a sudden burst of pain erupted in his head, causing him to lapse into darkness.


	11. Jinx II

When Sherlock raised his head groggily from the kitchen floor, the first thing his mind screamed at him was _earthquake!_ Going so far as to roll his eyes at himself, Sherlock peered around at the ruins as he waited for his brain to wake up properly. The kitchen was no longer recognisable; the units around him were either cracked in half or reduced to rubble, and there was no ceiling or roof above him. Dust had risen from the debris as it blurred Sherlock's vision and caught in his throat, sending him into a coughing fit whilst he slowly sat up and closed his eyes against the pounding headache. Wearily, he pulled out his phone and peered at the time. He'd been unconscious for two hours. Bit not good. A text icon popped up on his phone, and he spent about five minutes reading it, before putting it back in his pocket and looking around. The ruins of the house were silent, which was worrying seeing as himself, Ms. Marx, little Milly and John...

_ John._

Sherlock hurriedly pushed himself up from the ground and made to move towards what was left of the kitchen door. However, a sudden pain in his left leg sent him crumpling back down, only just managing to catch himself before he hit the floor full-force. He glared down at his leg in an accusing manner and gingerly probed it, feeling for the pain until he felt a sudden burst of it in his ankle. _Great._ Preparing for a second try, Sherlock slowly raised himself up on his feet, and began limping across the room, trying to put as little weight as possible on his bad ankle. He continued to stumble and trip over parts of the ceiling and roof as he made his way into what used to be the lobby but was now a wide expanse of area littered with wooden timbers and roof tiles. He could see people outside roaming the streets and already combing the remains of buildings for any survivors. In the background, sirens could be heard, but Sherlock knew that it was unlikely one would reach him; there were too many injured people to ignore for the sake of one person. He was in the middle of trying to work out where John might be when something on the floor caught his eye. Limping over, he crouched down next to the motionless body of Josie Marx and placed two fingers on her neck. No pulse. Rolling her onto her back, it was clear that she had been struck on the head and had most probably died instantly. Looking up, he saw that Ms. Marx's body was directly in line with the remains of the double doors. Fragments of Sherlock's memory were returning to him, and he could now recall Josie bolting out of the kitchen when the ground first started shaking. She had tried to get out without a second thought for him, or her daughter for that matter. John had been right all along - she was a horrible mother. The six year-old deserved far better.

Remembering the little girl, Sherlock quickly returned to his mission to find John. He straightened up and looked about him. There was no hope in deducing where John was; he hadn't bothered to ask the doctor to come with him or where he would go, and guilt was building up inside of him the longer he stood there. He decided there and then that he didn't like that emotion, and vowed to never feel it again.

Sherlock was about to move over to the grand staircase when he heard a quiet and muffled sound behind him. Spinning around, he looked about before hurriedly limping towards a gap in the opposite wall where a door had once been. He peered down and to his amazement found a staircase still intact. He gingerly tested each step before moving slowly downwards, conscious of his ankle and wincing every time pressure was put on it.

Finally his feet touched upon firm ground and he stared into complete darkness. Slowly, he took a few steps in what he hoped was a straight line, and gasped as his head clanged against something. Cursing under his breath, he reached up and used his hands to trace the outline of the object he had hit. It seemed like an old-fashioned lamp. Fumbling in the dark, he was proved correct as his fingers found a metal clasp and he opened the lamp, his other hand drawing out the cigarette lighter from inside his coat pocket and he quickly illuminated the small basement. He took the lamp off its hinges and surveyed his surroundings, dread filling him as he looked around. The entire room was destroyed. Fragments of the ceiling covered the floor whilst wooden beams provided dangerous obstacles and crushing weights for anyone underneath them, and there wasn't an uncovered piece of ground to be seen. Splinters of wood were sprawled everywhere and the amount of debris there caused dust to roam the air around him.

A small sob behind him caused Sherlock to turn around, the light from the lamp casting a yellow circle around him. In the corner of the room sat little Milly Marx, her arms hugging her scraped knees and the dust settling in her copper hair, causing it to appear blonde. Her dress was ripped and torn, and small cuts decorated her arms and face. Sherlock moved gently towards her and crouched down on one knee, his bad ankle lying painlessly on the floor.

"It's alright," he soothed, "You're alright now." Before he could say anything else, Milly had leapt up and flung her arms around his neck. Sherlock tensed involuntarily, before awkwardly patting her back. Quiet sobs wracked her tiny body, and she never relinquished her grip around him.

"Shh, calm down. You're not hurt, are you?" Milly drew back and looked at him with big brown eyes.

"My hand hurts." she sniffled and held out her left hand for Sherlock to see. He held it in his large one and peered closely at it. There was a long scrape running across her palm, and dirt had already lined it.

"It'll be fine." he assured, before returning his critical gaze to her. "Is John down here?" he asked.

She nodded, but didn't say anything.

"Where is he?" The girl said nothing, tears starting to stream down her face.

"Milly." Sherlock could feel panic bubbling up inside him. "Where's John?"

Milly sniffed again. "He... he wasn't moving... and I couldn't w-wake him." Her tears continued to fall, but Sherlock quickly shushed her.

"Please, where is he?" After taking a deep breath, she pointed a shaky finger across the room and Sherlock followed her gaze, the lamp casting a light on a large pile of rubble a few metres away. After telling Milly to stay where she was, Sherlock limped over to the timbers and knelt down next to them. Immediately, his heart clenched painfully, and he felt the blood drain from his face at what he could see.

A pale hand was outstretched from amongst the debris, and Sherlock would recognise the rough fingers anywhere. Without giving his mind time to process what he was doing, he quickly began shoving bits of wood and plaster away, and soon the top half of John Watson was uncovered, though the thicker beams were too heavy to move, leaving parts of his back and his legs trapped.

"Is John alright?" came the small voice from the corner.

Sherlock sighed. "I don't know. Give me a minute."

Giving up on trying to move the beams, Sherlock returned his attention back to his flatmate. The doctor was laying face-down on the ground, his head turned towards Sherlock. Dust and dirt covered his face, though it didn't hide the large gash on his forehead, blood from it trickling down the side of his face. His bomber jacket was ruined beyond repair, large tears along the sleeves and his back, and the deeper rips revealed blood seeping from wounds and into his clothing. John's face was exceedingly pale, and the blood there provided a stark contrast against the white pallor of his skin. Still, the very faint rise and fall of his chest urged Sherlock on.

"John? John, can you hear me?" Sherlock reached forwards and gently shook John's shoulder. The doctor didn't respond.

"Come on, John, wake up." he muttered. The only noise in the room was the sniffs from Milly, but Sherlock tuned it out.

"Don't do this to me. Come on." Suddenly, a slight twitch of the doctor's fingers caused Sherlock to instinctively reach out and grab them.

"John?" Sherlock squeezed his hand encouragingly as the ex-soldier's face formed into a slight frown, clearly in an effort to fight the pain engulfing him.

"Take your time, it's not like we've got anywhere to be."

"Shu' up." was the weak response, and Sherlock had to lean closer in order to hear him, though that didn't prevent the small smile from appearing on his face. Still, he tried to remain impassive.

"Oh, please." he scoffed. "You're making a big deal out of nothing."

"You're not... the one trapped under... a building."

"A building? Don't be so melodramatic."

"Oh... I'm the melo... dramatic one?" By now, John's hazel brown eyes had opened, and were watching him with an amused expression, though his face was still laced with pain. His breathing had improved slightly, but he was still as white as a sheet. Sherlock remained holding his hand, and he could feel slight tremors passing through the doctor's body.

"You... alright?" John gasped.

"I'm fine."

"Wha's wrong... with your leg?"

Sherlock gazed at him, dumbfounded. "My, er, I think my ankle's broken, or sprained. How did you know?"

John gave him a weary smile, "I'm... a doctor. 'Sposed to know... these things."

"Yes, but _how _did you know?" As he spoke, Sherlock looked around the basement for something that he could use to lever the wooden beams off John.

"Before... you were kneeling with... your lef' leg on the floor. Just now... you sat down an'... stretched your legs ou'... in front of you."

"So?" Sherlock prompted.

"Usually... you crouch an' bounce... on your heels. So why... would you suddenly restrict movement?... Something's wrong... wi' your leg."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile fondly at him. John was beginning to pick up his habits, though being a doctor probably helped him arrive at his conclusion.

"Where's... Milly?"

"She's over in the corner." Sherlock explained. John frowned slightly.

"She... OK?"

"I'm fine." the girl chirped, in a somewhat cheery manner. Sherlock gave her a surprised look.

"Good." John mumbled, "Tha's good." He was blinking more frequently, but they were slow and prolonged, the fight to keep his eyes open beginning to take its toll on him.

"I solved the case." Sherlock blurted out, desperate to keep John awake. Thankfully, his flatmate's eyes focused on him.

"You did? Who... did it?"

"Antonio Hargreaves."

John frowned. "Who?"

"He was one of the investors I was telling you about."

"Oh. So... t'wasn't Ms. Marx?"

"No. I confronted her about the affair Stephen Marx was having, and she claimed she had no idea. Either she's telling the truth, or she's an extremely good liar."

"Right." John said. "At least... I was right abou'... the affair."

Sherlock smiled at him. "Your theory was completely believable, John. Maybe next time."

John chuckled. "Fingers crossed." he muttered. "So why did... this Hargreaves do it?"

"It turns out this house is sitting on a goldmine. Quite literally. In the 1800's, Los Angeles was one of the biggest mining sites in America. Every day, diamonds were excavated and sold to the biggest buyer. Soon, some dodgy business entrepreneurs were selling diamonds as a form of payment to people smuggling illegal firearms into the country. The owners became rich, but when President Lincoln found out, he ordered all the mines to be closed. Hargreaves happens to be a descendant of one of the business owners, and he found out about the mines via a family relative. According to Ms. Marx, he'd been trying to get his hands on the property for around seven months... John, are you listening to me?"

"Mmm." was the response from the doctor, his eyes closed.

"The reason Hargreaves killed Stephen Marx was because Marx threatened to disown him. You see, Hargreaves is Marx's nephew. When Mr. and Mrs. Marx die, he will automatically inherit the house. Milly is a girl, so she doesn't count. To be honest, I don't understand why Hargreaves didn't just wait, though it wouldn't be surprising if the man has got into some sort of trouble and has a large debt to pay. It would certainly explain his eagerness."

"So... how did Marx... die?"

"It was definitely poison. Those ashes I found are from a plant called _Radix Pedis Diaboli_, which is Latin for 'Devil's Foot Root'. The toxic contents of the plant root are vaporised by heat and would diffuse into the atmosphere, causing Marx to be paralysed. Hargreaves came across the plant when he was in Africa - running a drugs business whilst there - and brought some home with him. Being a family member, he had easy access to the drawing room, so all he had to do was sprinkle the ash in the fire and wait for the effects to take its toll."

"Hmm." John said quietly. "Wha' 'bout the ghosts?"

Sherlock snorted. "This is an old and weary house, John. You should know. The noises where simply creaks and groans in the building. Ms. Marx was just too stu-"

"Daughter's... over there." John interrupted.

"Right." Sherlock said, giving a small smile to Milly.

"Where is... her mother?" John's voice had reduced to a whisper by now, exhaustion overwhelming him.

"Dead." Sherlock said quietly. "Do you think Milly will be upset?"

"She was her mother... though I doubt... she'll be too affected."

"I see." Sherlock lowered his voice even more. "John, how did you know she wasn't a good mother?"

"I know... a bad parent... when I see one."

"You sound as if you're talking from experience." Sherlock muttered, his gaze sliding over to the little girl in the corner.

John sighed. "I am."

Sherlock looked across at him sharply. "What are you talking about?"

John ignored his question. "When... we first met Milly... she was hiding behind the door. Normally... when meeting new people... a child would hide... behind their mother or father. Milly... didn't do that... as if she was weary of Ms. Marx... too."

"Oh."

"Also... Ms. Marx seemed more... intent on pleasing you... then worrying whether her daughter... was suffering from re-telling... her account of how she... found her father."

"I see."

"I'll bet... Milly didn't... even ask... about her... mother... when you... found her." John's breathing was becoming more and more laboured, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open.

"You're right." Sherlock said softly. "She was more concerned about you than anyone else."

John gave a weak smile but said nothing. Sherlock squeezed his hand gently.

"Stay awake, John."

John gave a small "mmph" in response, but his eyes remained closed.

"I mean it, John. Open your eyes."

The doctor winced, but said nothing else.

"John. Don't do this. Talk to me. How are you feeling?" _Stupid question, Sherlock_.

"... Like a building... collapsed on me."

"Help is coming, John, just stay awake." It was a damned lie, but Sherlock could think of nothing else to say.

"John? John, please." John's fingers slackened in Sherlock's grip, and he was barely breathing. Panic was overwhelming the detective now, and all he could do was sit and watch his best friend slowly die. Hot tears were brimming, but he furiously wiped them away. He spared a glance at Milly, who was watching him with far too much worry for a six year-old. He could see her big brown eyes glistening too, but he was too scared to comfort her. He squeezed John's limp hand again, willing him to wake up, but it was to no avail. John was as good as dead now.

Suddenly, an almighty crash from above him sent Sherlock stumbling to his feet, hissing at the pain in his ankle, and limping over to the stairs. When he saw the person at the top looking down at him, he could hardly believe his eyes.

"_Lestrade_? What on _earth _are you doing in America?"

Detective Inspector Lestrade gave a small smile. "You already know the answer." he said.

"Mycroft." Lestrade nodded.

"The earthquake was a 7.6 on the Richter Scale. I'd just touched down in L.A. when it happened. I got here as soon as I could."

"Well, I can honestly say I've never been more pleased to see you in my life." Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

Lestrade smiled grimly. "Mind telling me why you're down there?"

Sherlock frowned. _Was he really that stupid_?

"Sherlock?"

"Oh, you know, just thought I'd hang out in the basement."

Lestrade sighed. "Seriously, Sherlock. Is anyone down there with you? Do you know where Milly Marx is, the daughter?"

"She's down here." Sherlock turned and motioned for Milly to come over. Cautiously, she walked over to him and looked up at Lestrade, hiding behind Sherlock.

The detective inspector gave a warm smile. "Hey, Milly. My name's Greg, and I've got some people up here who can take care of you." Lestrade held out his hand in a friendly manner, walking down a few steps as he talked. After a reassuring nod from Sherlock, she carefully climbed the stairs and grasped Lestrade's hand. Once she reached the top, a woman dressed in black uniform came forward and ushered her away. Lestrade turned back to Sherlock.

"Anyone else down there?" he asked.

Sherlock sighed. "Take a wild guess."

Lestrade frowned. "I don't under-"

"Who is it that accompanies me on most cases, and then writes them up in his blog?"

"John? Well, why can't I see him?"

"You know why you can't see him, Inspector, you just don't want to acknowledge it." Sherlock said quietly.

Lestrade paled. "Oh, God. Is he...?"

"No." Sherlock said firmly. "But he's unconscious and trapped under some of the building."

Lestrade swore to himself, "Alright, hold on, Sherlock. Search and Rescue's here, they'll get him out."

The detective inspector turned and hurried of, and Sherlock took the opportunity to rush back to John and kneel next to him. He took John's hand again.

"John, can you hear me? Help is coming, John, stay with me. Please, just hold on." Before he could say anything else, five people were rushing down the stairs, carrying a stretcher between them. Sherlock quickly got out of the way as the team assessed the situation and went about lifting the beams off the small doctor. Between them, they removed the beams in about ten minutes, and soon, they were ever so gently rolling John onto his back and moving him onto the stretcher, placing an oxygen mask over him and quickly raising him and carefully manoeuvring him up the stairs. Sherlock followed them as fast as he could, though the trek up the stairs slowed him, and as soon as he limped back into the lobby he was assaulted by Lestrade, who was steering him towards the nearest ambulance, where paramedics were waiting. Reluctantly, he lay in the vehicle as the medics put a brace over his ankle and drove to the hospital, lights and sirens blaring loudly. He vaguely saw one of the medics putting something in his IV, before his eyelids were closing and he was enveloped into Morpheus' arms.

* * *

"You gave us all quite a scare, Doctor Watson."

John opened his eyes blearily, pulling away from the comfort of unconsciousness and appearing back in reality. He peered around the white hospital room in search of the somewhat familiar voice, and he turned his head to the right to see Mycroft Holmes sat in a seat next to his bed.

"Mycroft?" he croaked. "What're you doin' here?"

"Merely checking up on yourself and Sherlock." The government official said with a smile.

"Sherlock? Is he alright? Where is he? How is he? What-"

Mycroft held up a hand to shush him. "Sherlock will be fine. If you don't believe me, see for yourself." he gestured to the opposite side of the room, and John looked across to find Sherlock Holmes curled up in a chair, his left ankle encased in a white cast.

"This is the first time he's slept." Mycroft said from behind him, and John could hear the traces of a smile in his voice.

"How long was I unconscious?" John asked.

"Six days."

"Wha-? And he's stayed there all this time?"

"Did you really expect any less of him, John?" Mycroft asked, already knowing the answer.

"No, of course not. I just..." he trailed off, not knowing where he was going with this.

Mycroft seemed to understand. "I'll leave you to rest." he said, standing up and heading towards the door.

"Mycroft?"

"Mmm?" The government official turned back around to face him, eyebrows raised.

"What happened to Milly Marx?"

"She's living with the Marx's next of kin."

John frowned. "I didn't know Milly had a sibling."

"Mmm. A sister. Though she had only met a few months ago. And she's only _just _found out she has a sister."

John frowned again. "How old is the sister?"

Mycroft thought for a second. "Twenty-five."

"Right... what's her name?"

"Rosaline. Is that all?"

"Yes, thank you Mycroft." The elder Holmes smiled before leaving.

John sat back in his pillows, chuckling to himself. No, _at _himself. Marx apparently had a long-lost daughter. It was hardly Milly's fault that she didn't know she had a sister. So, no affair. Well, there _had _been an affair, just a long time ago. _Maybe next time_, he thought to himself. He looked across at Sherlock. He bet the git had known all along. He smiled again as he looked back up at the ceiling, blinking a few times as sleep enveloped him. He gladly slipped into a quiet bliss, thinking that he wouldn't be returning to America for a while...


	12. Kidnap

_Kidnap: __To steal or abduct someone, especially for use as a hostage, ransom or to gather information._

"Sherlock?"

"Mmph?"

"You alright?"

"Mmph."

"Oh, for God's sakes, don't do this now." John Watson sighed and subconsciously tested his bounds. The wooden chair he was sat on provided no comfort, as the rope around his wrists, chest and feet were exceedingly tight, and he had to constantly rotate his extremities in order to keep his circulation flowing.

"Do what?"

"That noise you make whenever you're bored."

Sherlock Holmes frowned. "I'm not bored, I was thinking of a way out of here, actually." He too tested the tightness of the ropes around himself, but he was unable to loosen them. He was also sat on a wooden chair, and the two of them were sat back to back, secured by a thicker and tighter piece of rope. Any chance of escape seemed useless.

John looked around the bare, desolate room they were in. There were no windows, and only one door, which he was facing, though it was locked and bolted. The only objects in the room were the two chairs the pair was sat on. Other than that, there were what seemed to be the ends of eight large drainpipes sticking out from all four walls. Not too useful. "Well, as soon as you get any ideas, don't hesitate to tell me." he said

Sherlock snorted. "I doubt it will help, seeing as it's your fault we're in this situation."

John snapped his head round to look at the side of Sherlock's face. "What the hell are you talking about? You were the one who had gone and gotten yourself kidnapped. I hardly see how I'm to blame, especially as I was the one who found you."

"Yes, and a fat lot of good that's done the both of us." Sherlock snapped. "Did you honestly think you could just stroll in here and persuade our captors to let us waltz out unharmed? Did you even _think _of a plan?"

"Lestrade is on his way!" John hissed. "I'm not stupid enough that I'd come here alone and without thinking it through. Greg's got practically the whole of Scotland Yard following him, though _how_ he did that I'm sure I'll never know, seeing as you're such an insufferable git who thinks everyone bows down to him!"

"Honestly, John. Now really isn't the time for insults."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise I was the one who was being rude. Have I offended you?"

"Well yes, actually, you-"

"I was being sarcastic!"

A tense silence ensued, both of them fuming at each other. Sherlock scanned his surroundings intently, trying to ignore the laboured and heavy breathing behind him. It had been clear earlier when two thugs had practically dragged John into the room that he had been hit repeatedly in the stomach and chest. No doubt he had a cracked rib or two. Bruises were also blossoming along his cheek, and the doctor's knuckles were red and raw. Clearly, he had tried to fight back. And with some success, if the broken jaw Thug No. 1 was nursing and the black eye sported by Thug No. 2 was anything to go by. Still, it wasn't as if Sherlock was unscathed. Nearly everywhere hurt, and a large and deep gash decorated the top of his head; he could feel a thin line of blood trickling down his face, along with the blinding headache that continued to thump incessantly across his forehead. He supposed his dislocated shoulder could be worrying, and the tight ropes certainly weren't helping. He knew John had probably catalogued the detective's injuries the second he saw him, and it was obvious by the concerned expression on the doctor's face that he looked worse than he actually felt.

A loud screeching sound jerked Sherlock from his thoughts, and he twisted as far as he could to see the large metal door opening and a man with curly blond hair walked in. He was tall and slender, and wore a grey three-piece suit, though Sherlock could tell he was only wearing it to look intimidating; the constant fiddling of his shirt cufflinks suggested their captor was uncomfortable in his clothing.

Regardless of his afflictive suit, the man strutted comfortably towards them. He moved to the side so that both Sherlock and John could see the broad grin plastered across his face.

"Good evening, gentlemen." he said. There was the slightest trace of a French accent as he stood with his feet apart and hands behind his back. Thugs 1 and 2 had entered the room after him, splitting up and standing near Sherlock and John.

"I'm sure you know why you are here." The Frenchman said, raising his eyebrows as invitation to speak. In all honesty, John didn't have a clue. He hadn't been involved in the latest case with Sherlock, having been too busy with work and other issues to join the detective. So currently, he was waiting for Sherlock to answer.

"Of course." Sherlock's deep, baritone voice rumbled through the small room.

The Frenchman smiled. "Ah, good. At least I won't have to explain myself. You will do it, then?"

The detective raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Fortier, I can assure you that I will do no such thing."

The smile vanished. "Well, Mr. Holmes, _I_ can assure _you_ that there will be consequences."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Obviously." John kicked his legs.

Having noticed the action, Mr. Fortier slid his gaze over to the ex-soldier. "And I suppose, Mr. Watson, that-"

"Doctor." John interjected. "Doctor Watson."

Mr. Fortier's eyes narrowed. "_Mr. _Watson, I do not appreciate being interrupted." With a snap of his fingers, Thug No. 1 stepped forward and whacked John across the face. Sherlock tensed as John kept his head lowered for a few seconds, before finally raising it to glare at Mr. Fortier.

"As I was saying, I am guessing that you cannot be persuaded, either?"

In reply, John spat a mixture of blood and saliva at Mr. Fortier's feet. He knew it wasn't very mature, or sensible, but he deemed it the best way to express his answer towards the Frenchman. To his surprise, he received no 'consequence' for his action, instead Mr. Fortier snapped his fingers again and the two thugs sauntered out, a loud echo bouncing around the room from the door.

Mr. Fortier gave another smile. "I'm sure you'll change your minds very soon." With that, he spun on his heel and strode out of the room, the door clanging again. Both John and Sherlock could hear the metallic grating as a number of bolts were slid across, ensuring there was no escape.

"Well, that went well." John muttered after a few minutes.

"Mmph." Sherlock answered. John rolled his eyes.

"Thought of a plan yet?"

"No. You talking to me doesn't help." The detective snapped. He needed to think. Mr. Fortier's certainty that they would change their minds didn't bode well for them. If ever there was a time to get out, now would be that time. He was surprised at the lack of response from the doctor - usually John would give some sort of retort. Craning his neck round so he could just see his friend, he noticed John's sunken head and (attempted) controlled breathing.

"You OK?" he asked.

John's head whipped up and he turned slightly to look at Sherlock. "What?"

"I said, are you OK?"

"Yes, I'm fine." John said tiredly, shifting in his chair. Suddenly he froze. "Oh, for crying out loud." he muttered.

"What? What's the matter?"

John sighed, beginning to twist one of his wrists from side to side in an attempt to loosen the rope around it. "A teenager came into the clinic this morning with a broken hand. He-"

"Is this relevant to our situation?" Sherlock interrupted him.

John glared at him from side-on. "Yes, of course it's relevant. Why would I suddenly decide to tell you now?"

"Sorry. Continue."

"Right. He told me he'd been in a fight with a few gang members, but he'd defended himself with a blade. He told me he felt bad using it, so he gave it to me." John paused, looking guilty. "The blade is in my pocket." he said quietly, continuing to move his wrist.

Sherlock stared at him, dumbfounded. "You mean to tell me that you've had it all this time? All the times I've expressed the need to get out of here?"

"Yes." John muttered, looking away.

Sherlock rolled his eyes "You are on shining form today, Doctor. Really, your help has-"

"Oh shut up, will you?" John snarled, stopping the twisting motion and glaring back at the detective. "You've continued to belittle me the entire time I've been here, and I don't even know _why _I'm here. For all I know, you've done something completely stupid, but I still sided with you when that Fortier guy questioned us. You haven't said anything positive about me finding you, and I know it backfired, but at least I tried, and it's not like help isn't on its way. And now, when I provide a way to get us free, you still criticise me! For once, can't you be grateful that someone other than you has done something right?"

Sherlock sighed. "John, you have hardly gotten a way to get us free. The knife you mentioned is in one of your back pockets, otherwise you would be currently raising yourself to try and reach it. Therefore, the blade is useless, seeing as neither of us can reach it. Moaning about me not being grateful isn't worth it as you obviously haven't _observed _that you can't actually get us out!"

"How can you scorn me for not being observant, when you haven't even _noticed _that I've gotten one of my hands free?" Sherlock quickly spun round, mouth dropping open. Indeed, John had managed to get his right wrist free and was currently sawing through the ropes on his other hand.

Within in five minutes, he was knelt in front of Sherlock and cutting the tight bindings. As he worked, he looked up at his friend and eyed the gash on the detective's forehead critically. Before he could say anything, however, a loud screeching noise reverberated around the room. The two of them whipped their heads to the metal door, but it didn't open. Instead, an intense gushing sound was heard, before gallons of water crashed into the room through the eight pipes.

Both Sherlock and John stared incredulously at them for a moment, and then the soldier rapidly increased the speed at which he was sawing through the ropes. Sherlock was shouting at him to hurry up, and John was shouting that he was going as fast as he could, "_so don't bloody rush me!_"

Finally, Sherlock was free. Within seconds he was out of his chair and sloshing through the already ankle-deep water to the metal door. He studied it intently, scrutinising each bolt and lock, looking for any chinks or weaknesses. Having found nothing, the detective then resulted to pounding on the door in an attempt to loosen the locks, but to no avail. John was already examining one of the pipes, shaking it and trying to see how far back it went, but the constant flow of water prevented any chances of disassembling it without causing possibly even more water to gush in.

"When did you say Lestrade was getting here?" Sherlock called from across the room, studying the door again. The water was now knee-deep, and the detective was starting to worry.

John coughed. "Erm... could be a while."

Sherlock paused. "What do you mean?"

"He... er... doesn't have a specific address."

"_What_?"

"It was a lucky shot that I found you! I had to wander around the area for about half an hour before I noticed those thugs. I couldn't give an address to Lestrade; I could only give a rough direction. Don't look at me like that!"

"You utter _moron_, John! Why the hell didn't you go _with _Lestrade, instead of gallivanting off on your own?" By now, both Sherlock and John had stopped what they were doing, and were face to face, staring intimidating at one another.

"If I had waited, you would currently be strapped to a chair whilst straining to keep your head above water! Don't you dare try to turn this on me; you're the one that got us into this mess!"

"I had this _mess_ completely under control until you showed up!" The pair of them was suddenly interrupted by a loud knocking on the door.

"I will stop the water if you comply with my demands." The unmistakable voice of Mr. Fortier sang through the door. Sherlock and John looked about them. The freezing water was now up to Sherlock's hips, travelling past John's stomach, and it showed no signs of stopping.

"We'll let you know if we change our minds!" John called, still glaring at Sherlock, who was staring icily back.

"So be it." said Fortier.

"What now?" John hissed at him.

Sherlock was about to answer when something above him caught his eye. Glancing up at the ceiling he couldn't help but let out a quiet chuckle when he recognised one side of a small trapdoor.

"We wait."


	13. Kidnap II

Detective Inspector Lestrade was currently stood in Leamouth, sticking out like a sore thumb. He was looking this way and that at each derelict building in the hopes that perhaps John Watson would hop out of one and beckon them over. He sighed. Who was he kidding? John was just as bad as Sherlock. Maybe he had different motives - worry, concern - but he still ran off at the first whim of information, giving a cryptic text as a message that he'd found something.

"Sir, this is a waste of time. He's obviously not here, let's just go back to the Yard and wait for him to call." Beside him, Sergeant Donavan moved from foot to foot, blowing into her hands to warm them from the cold and bitter January air.

"Sergeant, John wouldn't text us to tell us he's in Leamouth, only to be somewhere completely different. We wait."

Donavan sighed. Loudly.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Well, would you rather we searched each and every warehouse?"

"If it means keeping warm, yes!"

"Alright, then. Go back to the cars and divide the officers into groups of four or five. Come back and we'll start in that one over there." Lestrade pointed whilst Donavan nodded and stalked back to the squad cars. Five minutes later and the two of them, joined by three other officers, trudged through the snow towards a warehouse. As they were walking, a small light to the left of him caught his attention. Frowning, he stopped and squinted through the evening night. That particular warehouse was the only one lit up, which certainly narrowed down their options. The detective inspector touched Donavan's arm.

"Over there, Sergeant." Donavan looked to where he was gesturing and nodded to let him know she understood. She motioned for the officers to follow as the five stalked quickly over to the building. Soon they were crouched underneath one of the windows, cautious not to be noticed and hoping they had the right one.

Lestrade peered into the window. The room was empty, though it was clear the warehouse was inhabited. There was a large rug in the middle of the room, and a wooden table to the side. Various candles illuminated the area, and what seemed to be a large boiler dominated the back of the space. Lestrade crouched back down and quickly told the others what he'd seen. He led them round to the front door and tested it, surprised when it swung open noiselessly.

Without making a sound, the five of them trailed in, immediately splitting up without communicating to each other. The detective inspector moved over to one side, scouring the room for any evidence of people. Happening to glance downwards, his eyes fell upon a large trapdoor.

Quietly calling to Donavan, who was closest, the two of them lifted up the door, revealing a long set of stairs. Silently, they crept downwards, and as they drew closer the faint sound of voices could be heard. Once Greg reached the floor, he could see three men standing around two computer screens, muttering to each other. None of them noticed the two police officers drawing nearer until Lestrade had cuffed one and held another in a head lock within seconds. Donavan had also cuffed her man to a metal pipe against the wall, waiting for orders. More officers streamed down the stairs, and Lestrade gestured for a pair of handcuffs. Soon all three of them were attached to the metal pipe.

Taking a breath, Greg moved his gaze towards one of the computer screens, and started at what he saw. The camera which was relaying the images was clearly placed in the top corner of another room, and it showed two men treading water, reaching upwards and trying to grab something, though what it was, Lestrade couldn't see. However, the two men were unmistakable.

"Jesus Christ." Donavan muttered. They couldn't hear what was being said, but it looked as though Sherlock and John were in the middle of a shouting match whilst they were still trying to reach their object. Although he couldn't see it, Lestrade was smart enough to know whatever it was, it was a way out. The most obvious choice, therefore, was a trapdoor.

"Right." He turned to the four officers in the room. "Somewhere upstairs, there is another trapdoor, and these men's lives depend on us finding it. One of you go over to that boiler and try and find a way to stop the water. Do not waste any time, or you will most probably be answering to the British Government. Upstairs. Now!" They raced up the stairs and immediately began turning the room upside down, looking for the illustrious trapdoor.

* * *

"You're the one with long arms, Sherlock, stop telling me to do it and do it yourself!" John shouted as he struggled to keep his head above the frigid water. They were about fifteen inches from the ceiling, and John was on borderline panic. They had both been propelling themselves up from the water and trying to break down the trapdoor, seeing as there was no handle on this side of it. John held the knife in his hand, and he pushed forward stabbing it into the wood and trying to make a large slice in it. However, the doctor fell back down earlier than anticipated, and he couldn't stop his grip from slipping as his head momentarily submerged in the water, before resurfacing and taking a breath. He glanced at Sherlock, who was staring daggers at him, and he smiled sheepishly.

"Sorry." he mumbled as he looked up at the knife lodged in the trapdoor.

He could hear Sherlock muttering under his breath as the water continued to rise. Having given up on trying to reach the door, John treaded water for a few minutes, trying to think of a way to slow, if not stop, the flow of water. An idea popped into his head - a stupid one at that, but he had nothing else - and he quickly shed his jacket. Bunching it into a ball, he took a deep breath, then dived underwater and swam down as much as he could, desperate to reach the floor. He continued down, down, down until his fingers brushed the floor, and he quickly swam to the side until he found one of the drainpipes. He could feel the fast flow of water against him, so he quickly stuffed his jacket into the pipe. Knowing it was going to be pointless, he strove for the surface, his lungs screaming at him to hurry.

Finally, John hit the surface, gasping and coughing as he struggled to stay above the water.

"Did you honestly think that was going to work?" that bitter tone in Sherlock's voice snapped John's last nerve.

"Have you got any better ideas? I don't see you trying anything! All you've done for the past half hour is mock and criticise every single thing I do, and I realise I haven't been as helpful as I could be, but that doesn't mean I haven't tried. Will you _please _just get off my case?" He took a shaky breath after finishing his outburst and closed his eyes. Exhaustion was looming ever closer, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep treading water. His head was now brushing the ceiling, and his neck was starting to ache at the angle he kept it at. A quiet splashing sound from his left made him open his eyes, and he was surprised to see Sherlock right in front of him, gripping his arms.

"John." Sherlock's face was filled with concern as he eyed the doctor. "You're getting tired. Shouting isn't going to help reserve your energy."

John sighed. "I know Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lose my temper, it's just... I hadn't planned on drowning today."

Sherlock continued to watch him carefully. "You can make this stop if you want." At John's confused expression, he elaborated. "Fortier will stop the flow of water if you comply with his demands. We'll both get out alive, albeit a little wet, but you'll have to do what he says."

"You're willing to let me do that?" John asked suspiciously.

"If it's what you want, then yes."

"Will you do it?"

"No." Sherlock said quietly.

"Then... neither will I." John said with determination.

He could see Sherlock visibly brighten. "Really?"

John smiled. "Yes, really. If whatever it is that Fortier wants you to do is bad enough that you'll drown to prove your point, then I'll stand by you. Besides, even if I did yield, I'd have to put up with your sulking for the rest of my life." he added lightly.

Sherlock returned John's smile. "Good." he said, "Wait here." Without any indication, he took off his coat and dived underwater. John watched him, incredulous, until he could no longer see him, before returning his gaze to the trapdoor.

He was now able to reach it without having to jump, so he resulted on pounding on it for a few moments, testing its strength, before giving up, panting from the exertion. The water had risen to just under his mouth, and he was constantly spitting some of it out.

After what seemed like forever, Sherlock re-emerged from below a few metres away, shaking the water from his head as he looked for something to grasp onto. John quickly swam over, grasping Sherlock's arm and keeping him upright. Eventually, the detective was able to continue on his own, and he muttered a "thanks" to the doctor, looking at him with a sorrowful expression.

"Yes... that method really isn't going to work." he admitted.

John let out a shaky laugh. "Didn't think it would." Soon, he was back to being serious. "What now?"

Sherlock sighed. "I don't know. Perhaps Fortier will stop the water, on the chance that he really does need us to obey him. It's highly unlikely, but it's all we've got. We're going to be submerged in less than a minute, so there's really nothing much we can do but wait."

Neither of them said anything as the water continued to steadily rise. The lamps lighting the room instantaneously went out as the wicks were doused, and the pair were plunged into darkness, the constant splashing of water and heavy breathing the only sounds. Sherlock knew they weren't going to last much longer; his legs and arms were getting weary and he was vaguely aware that John was moving (probably without realising it) away from the trapdoor. If, for whatever reason, the door opened, he doubted the doctor would have the energy to swim over. He could still feel the rough wood of the trapdoor above him, and he weakly tried knocking on it. After about ten seconds, though, he had stopped, being too tired to keep the motion up. There wasn't any light to give his eyes a chance to adjust, so he could only rely on his other senses to keep him alert, even though they were no longer heightened. He just prayed that some sort of miracle would befall them.

As if in answer to his prayer, the trapdoor above him was wrenched open, and gallons of light flooded the small room. He squinted upwards and felt relief wash over him as Detective Inspector Lestrade held out his hand. He was about to comply when his thoughts quickly turned back to John.

"Wait there." he said breathlessly. _As if Lestrade was going to wander off now._ Sherlock turned around and swam forward a few metres, scanning the room for any signs of John. He was rewarded when he caught a flash of colour only a few metres away. He pushed towards him, his heart doing leaps when he saw that the doctor was still conscious, and he quickly grasped his arm, towing them back towards the surface. He held out a wobbly hand to Lestrade, and the detective inspector, along with Donavan, wasted no time in hauling him out of the freezing water. Lestrade dragged him aside as two other officers lifted John out, the doctor coughing and spluttering against the wooden floor.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Lestrade's worried voice snapped his gaze from John, and he looked up and nodded once. The other officers joined Lestrade and hurried off when he told them to fetch some blankets. Donavan went after them, quickly explaining that she was going to get a first aid box from the car for their injuries.

"Are you hurt?" Lestrade asked him, crouching down next to the detective and casting an eye over him. Sherlock managed a quiet "no" as he crawled over to John. The ex-army soldier was lying on his side, still coughing, and Sherlock wasted no time in helping him sit up, mentally degrading the officers for their lack of medical instincts. John leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder wearily, having finished coughing. Lestrade got up from his crouched position and moved over to the two of them, quickly taking off his thick coat and draping it over the doctor and detective until the blankets arrived, having noticed the pair of them shivering. He then told them he was going to make a call, and quickly left the room.

"The police never fail to amaze me at their lack of speed." Sherlock muttered as he rubbed John's arm, attempting to warm him up. John cracked a small smile and nudged him in the side.

"I would have thought you'd be thankful that they're here. They did just save our lives, after all."

Sherlock snorted. "Nonsense. I had the situation perfectly under control." John rolled his eyes and sat up on his own, having regained most of his energy. As soon as the doctor was focused again, he cast a sharp gaze over Sherlock, and gave a quick examination of the detective's dislocated shoulder. John was about to say something about his carelessness, when Sherlock cut him off.

"I don't need your lectures, John. I knew what I was doing, and if my injury got any worse, I would have told you."

"You could have told me in the first place." John replied.

"And cause you to be even more worried?"

"I don't think I could have gotten any more worried." the doctor muttered.

"Hmm. I suppose I should... thank you... for your help."

John smiled. "I'm not expecting any thanks, Sherlock, you don't need to say it. I didn't really help."

"Of course you did." Sherlock said defiantly. "And you should know that I'm grateful. I realise I don't say it often, but I mean it. I should also sincerely apologise for the harsh things I said. They were cruel and untrue, and-"

"Sherlock." John interrupted. "You don't need to thank me or apologise. You're only going to go and make the situation awkward. And it wasn't like I didn't snap at you either. Now come on, we need to get that shoulder looked at. Hurry up!" John said as Sherlock slowly dragged himself to his feet. "And you say the police are the ones who're slow."

Without waiting for a response, John led Sherlock out of the warehouse and quickly guided him to an ambulance that had been called. He made the detective sit on the edge and sternly told him to leave the blanket on his shoulders as he examined the injured one more closely and applied a makeshift sling until they got home. He also leapt at the opportunity to clean the detective's head wound with the first aid kit Donavan had given him, tutting to himself about Sherlock's nonchalance.

Once he had finished, he turned to address Lestrade when Sherlock quickly caught his arm and swapped their positions, so that John was sitting in the ambulance. He quickly beckoned over a paramedic, who immediately set to work on checking for cracked ribs and analyzing the bruises on the doctor's face. John sent a murderous glare in Sherlock's direction, who grinned in response.

"I'm not the only one ignoring my injuries. Don't think I hadn't noticed." he said. "I'll be with Lestrade if you need me." Sherlock steered the detective inspector away from the ambulance, smiling as he ignored the hurt-puppy look John was giving him.


	14. Loyal

_**Loyal: **__Giving or showing firm and constant support or allegiance to a_ _person_.

"Will you stop complaining, Sherlock?" John Watson growled.

"Why should I? All you've got is a bruised shoulder. _You're_ not the one with a bullet in your leg!" Sherlock Holmes snarled back. He winced as John shifted slightly, the long arm around the doctor's shoulders tensing each time he put pressure on his wounded leg.

"Yeah, the same shoulder that had a bullet in it; a shot shoulder is just as bad as a shot leg." John grunted, squinting ahead against the bright glare of the sun in the hopes that there might be some sort of settlement in the Alps.

Yes, you heard him right; they were currently struggling down a snow-covered mountain somewhere along the Swiss Alps. Why, you ask? Because the case Sherlock had dragged him on had resulted in a violent confrontation between themselves and five other men. The same men that were now pursuing them.

Though on the bright side, it seemed as though they had lost their attackers somewhere along the hazardous trek. The icy air was nipping at every part of their faces, and the brutal winds made it all the more worse as they attempted to remain standing. The thick parkas Sherlock and John were wearing did their best to keep them warm, but they were slowly losing the battle, the material only being able to fight against so much. John had lost his scarf, now that it was wrapped tightly around Sherlock's leg, so he could feel the full force of the gale against his face and neck, chilling him even more as flecks of snow continued to block his vision. He could only hope they would find warmth, and soon.

"Yes, but it didn't render you unable to walk." Sherlock muttered, still grumbling about his leg.

John sighed. "No, but it meant my arm was useless, even though I still needed it to help other soldiers."

"It's not as bad as nearly passing out."

"Since when did this become a competition? And you are not going to faint on me, Sherlock Holmes, because I am too tired to drag your lanky form along after me. And I'll have you know, I did pass out. The lack of blood tends to do it."

"Alright, fine, you win." John couldn't help but smile triumphantly as he continued to aid the detective down the mountainside. The very faint sound of shouting was carried along the wind, and he couldn't help but move a little faster, thus eliciting a hiss from Sherlock.

"Sorry," John huffed, "But we need to hurry up. I can hear them from behind us."

"I know," Sherlock panted, "It's not difficult. So much for being discreet, hmm? They're going to have to be a lot quieter if they want to catch us."

"I wouldn't be so sure." John muttered.

"Oh, we'll be fine. Though it would help if you went in the right direction."

"What are you talking about?" John asked, frowning. Sherlock pointed at something just off to the right of them, and John followed his direction, mouth dropping open in surprise as he saw a small, wooden cabin about a mile away, the brown wood showing clearly against the bright white of the snow.

"When did you see that?" he asked.

"'Bout ten minutes ago." Sherlock replied.

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

"I knew you'd see it eventually."

"I doubt it, seeing as I'm constantly being distracted by you."

"Well you've seen it now, so there's nothing to complain about, is there?" John sighed in exasperation as he changed his course and headed towards the small cabin. They'd been trudging through the snow for the past hour and a half, and they were both beginning to feel the effects of exhaustion. Indeed, every now and then Sherlock's leg would buckle, and John would have to quickly catch him and help him stand upright. Either that or John would stumble, causing Sherlock to lean more heavily against him and make it harder to keep going.

John could feel Sherlock's grip around his shoulders begin to slacken, and he knew it wouldn't be long until the detective really did pass out. Blood loss and the freezing temperatures was enough to switch off his senses, and John could see the pain etched in his face as he continued to limp alongside the doctor. Talking would be the best way to keep Sherlock alert, and it was only one mile to go.

"So," John began. "Which one of our pursuers is the killer?"

Sherlock huffed, "I would have thought that was obvious." he said.

John refrained from elbowing the detective, "Oh? Enlighten me."

"The one that shot me, perhaps?"

John pursued his lips. "I 'spose that was obvious." he admitted. Sherlock only hummed in response, deeming the need for conversation unnecessary and wincing again as John stumbled.

"Almost there." John breathed once he'd apologised. He tightened his hold around Sherlock's waist and squeezed the detective's gloved hand comfortingly.

"I can see that." came the sharp retort, though Sherlock wasn't prepared when his wounded leg sent him buckling to the ground again. John quickly let go of the hand around his shoulders and grabbed the front of Sherlock's coat, holding him upright whilst the younger man grappled John's arms for support. John could hear Sherlock cursing as he regained his balance, and fought a small smile as they continued towards the cabin once again.

The rest of their journey was conducted in silence, and after about forty minutes they _finally _reached the wooden dwelling. John made sure to keep his hold on Sherlock as he tested the door, and to his surprise it noiselessly swung open, albeit a little stiffly. Shuffling inside, John only had eyes for the bare bed in the corner, and he wasted no time in gently laying Sherlock upon it. The detective was too tired to protest, silently resting his head upon the scratchy and dusty pillow and letting John examine his leg.

Thankfully, it was a through and through wound, and the bullet had hit nothing important. The doctor removed his gaze from Sherlock's leg and searched their surroundings in the hopes that there was something that could be helpful.

The cabin was a single room, with a small fireplace on the opposite wall of the bed and a desk situated under the window next to the door. Various cabinets and drawers were placed along the walls, each one containing something different as John rummaged through them before victoriously emerging from one, pulling out a long metal tin which had a number of bandages and scissors, along with tweezers, a needle and string inside it. He moved back over to Sherlock, who was watching as he quickly and efficiently wrapped one of the bandages around the detective's leg.

"There's no point stitching your wound because I can't clean it, and I might risk infection. The best I can do is bandage it to stop the blood flow and then think of a way out of-" John stopped mid-sentence when his eyes fell upon the desk near the door again. He left Sherlock, still watching him, though with a frown on his face, and walked over to the table, staring incredulously at the contraption sat on top of it. He quickly turned back to Sherlock.

"Did you see telegraph wires coming out of this cabin?" Without waiting for an answer, he walked back out the front door and glanced upwards. Sure enough, long, thin wires trailed off into the distance, supported every now and then by run-down pylons. Why on earth were there telegraph wires in the middle of the Alps? He was hardly complaining, though, seeing as this greatly improved their situation.

John hurried back inside, closing the door behind him and went back to look at the small machine. He could hardly believe their stroke of luck.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, sitting up on the bed and trying to look around John.

"It's a – uh – a Morse code machine." he explained. Sherlock frowned at first, before smiling, ever so slightly.

"And you know how to use it?" he prompted. John nodded, he too beginning to smile.

"Well, this has definitely improved my day." Sherlock said as he settled back down on the bed.

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean anyone will receive it." he added.

"Worth a try, isn't it?"

"Hmm? Oh yes, definitely." John said, "Um, right. Ok, give me a minute, I need to remember how to work this." he slowly sank down onto the wooden chair next to the desk and stared at the machine. Bits of information were slowly coming back to him, and after about two minutes, he was feeling confident that he could use it.

"Alright," John said, swallowing nervously, "Here goes nothing." He had a message ready in his head, and as he pressed down quickly on the pad, he hoped it would be clear and easy to understand. Letters flashed through his mind, telling him whether to dot or dash, and he managed to keep a consistent pace, and he was soon relaying the last word and sitting back in the chair, praying that someone was on the other end to hear it.

"Done?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah." John answered, before leaving the desk and crouching next to Sherlock, checking and double checking the bandages. He noticed faint tremors running through the detective's body, and John wasted no time in searching through the pockets of Sherlock's parka, giving the brunette a condescending look as he pulled out a lighter. Sherlock smiled sheepishly as the ex-soldier found a metal bucket filled with thick logs of wood and began to pile them onto the fireplace, soon having a large fire going as the warmth instantly spread through the room.

"Better?" he asked Sherlock.

"A little."

John frowned. "You're still cold?"

Sherlock, sensing 'yes' was the wrong answer, tensed. "Maybe." he said coyly.

John rolled his eyes as he unzipped his parka and gently draped it over Sherlock. "It doesn't hurt to tell the truth every once in a while, you know." he said.

"Yes, but where would the fun in that be?"

* * *

In the building that was the Military of Switzerland, located in the capital city of the country, one of the many caretakers of the building stood staring, perplexed, at the Morse code receptor that had been stored away in the basement. A thin line of paper was now being emitted from it, decorated with dots and dashes. The caretaker moved over to it, and, knowing a little Morse code, could only frown as he read the foreign language. Whatever the message was it must have been important, so he abandoned his bucket and mop and quickly headed to the upstairs offices.

"Spricht hier jemand Englisch?" He barged into the nearest office and froze when he saw himself face to face with Lieutenant Andre Gauch.

"Ja, ich spreche Englisch. Warum?" The Lieutenant frowned at him. Why would a caretaker want someone who spoke English? The caretaker beckoned him over, and soon he was following the elderly man down two flights of stairs and into the basement. His confusion only increased when the caretaker handed him a thin slip of paper.

"Wissen Sie, Morse-Code, Sir?" Did he know Morse code? He nodded curtly, and looked down at the paper. Ah. The message was in English. He sat down and slowly studied the message before looking up at the caretaker with a shocked expression, excusing himself as he hurried up the stairs, ignoring the caretaker's questions. He needed to make a phone call. The piece of paper which held the translation had been discarded on the floor, and the caretaker frowned as he read it, still none the wiser.

SOS STOP SHERLOCK HOLMES TRAPPED IN CABIN IN SWISS ALPS STOP BULLET WOUND TO LEG STOP ATTACKERS STILL PURSUING STOP PLEASE CONTACT MYCROFT HOLMES AND RELAY MESSAGE STOP COORDINATES ARE BELOW FINAL STOP

* * *

"Mr. Holmes, you have a phone call."

Mycroft looked up from his desk as his receptionist spoke through the intercom. Indeed, the red, flashing light clearly indicated someone waiting on the line.

"I told you I didn't wish to be disturbed." Mycroft said sternly.

"He said it's urgent."

Mycroft sighed. "Who is it?"

There was a pause as his receptionist clarified the speaker's name, and then she spoke again. "He says his name is Lieutenant Andre Gauch."

"Put him on." he said, slightly confused.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?"

"I have been asked to relay a message to you, sir. It just came in from one of our Morse code machines in the basement."

"What did it say?" Mycroft asked, his interest captured.

"It was an SOS call from somewhere in the Swiss Alps. The message said it was from Sherlock Holmes, and-"

"Sherlock doesn't know Morse code." Mycroft interrupted.

"Well then he learnt very quickly, sir. Either way, it said he had a bullet wound to the leg and was being pursued by the people who shot him. The message asked that you be told."

Mycroft didn't say anything, considering his options. Since when did Sherlock know Morse code?

"Where is he?"

"I have my assistant e-mailing you the co-ordinates as we speak."

"Thank-you, Lieutenant. Your help has been very much appreciated. I will take it from here. Good day." Without waiting for a response, Mycroft ended their call as he dialled another number on the phone and waited.

"Richard? Yes, it's Mycroft... I'm fine, thank you for asking... I'm glad you asked, actually. I was wondering if you had a helicopter to spare..."

* * *

John Watson was pacing up and down the cabin, thinking through his next move.

Sherlock was still lying on the simple bed, eyelids half closed as he shivered involuntarily.

The fire was beginning to die down, despite John having used the last of the wood to resurrect it, and Sherlock could feel the cold seeping through his many layers. He didn't dare to think how cold John must have been, though the doctor seemed too distracted to care.

Sherlock had been studying him for the past twenty minutes, and he could tell that something was on John's mind. He had deduced the ex-soldier was considering two options, both of them not to his liking as his pacing indicated that he was torn between the two, still undecided after twenty minutes. However, the detective's slow brain – due to the cold and the pain from his leg – had only been able to work the one thing out; pushing himself harder only resulted in a pounding headache.

Sherlock sighed, losing his patience. His leg was still throbbing, and there was nothing he could take that could reduce the pain. John had continued to hover, asking simple questions and constantly telling him to stay awake. At one point, though he couldn't really remember, he had snapped at the doctor and told him (rather harshly) to go away. John had left him for about ten minutes before returning and changing his bandages, ignoring Sherlock's protests. The pacing that John was doing now was just as annoying as the hovering he had been doing previously.

"For God's sake, John, what's the matter?" he said sharply.

The soldier froze in his pacing and turned to look at him, an expression of surprise upon his face. "Nothing's the matter." he said unconvincingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You are a terrible liar, John Watson. Tell me what's wrong."

John's shoulders slumped, admitting defeat, though that didn't prevent him from avoiding Sherlock's question. "I'm... just in a difficult situation." He resumed his pacing, eyes un-focusing as he plotted out different scenarios in his head.

"Well aren't we all, but that doesn't answer my question." Sherlock said.

The doctor finally caved in, sitting on the edge of the bed that Sherlock was on. "The message I sent, most likely it's gone to a base in Switzerland."

"Right." Sherlock said slowly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I'm getting there." John said, waving his arm as if to brush the question aside. "Either they'll send a Search and Rescue team to find us, or they'll do as I ask, and–"

"–contact Mycroft." finished Sherlock, a scowl on his face.

"I – yes, how did you know?" John asked, frowning.

"You were wary that contacting Mycroft would anger me, so you refrained from saying anything. Normally you would have told me straight away what you'd written."

"Right. Yes, I asked them to get in touch with Mycroft. I thought it best that he knew straight away, rather than–"

"–hearing it from someone else, and you having to deal with the consequences. Fine. I see why you did it, but how will either Mycroft or the Search and Rescue team know where to find us?"

"I know the co-ordinates for the ski resort where we found our killer. I messaged them to the base in Switzerland, and I'm assuming that a helicopter or something will be sent there. We're only about six or seven miles from the resort, so I thought–"

"–you could meet them there and direct them back here."

"_Will you stop finishing my sentences_?" John snapped, before placing his head in his hands. "Sorry. Yes, that's what I thought I could do." he said.

"John-"

"Don't." John interrupted, getting up from the bed and resuming his pacing. "I know it's a foolish and dumb idea, and I really don't want to leave you. In fact, alarm bells are going off in my head and my doctor's instincts are screaming at me not to do it, that this is the stupidest thing I'll ever do. Don't try and persuade me to let you come. Your leg is too bad, and you'll pass out within fifteen minutes."

"John-"

"If I stay, it's going to be too long until anyone finds us. They won't have a clue where to look, and what's to say they won't go off in the opposite direction? By then you will be unconscious, and I won't be able to do anything. No, I need to go, and you... you have to stay, even if it means..."

"John." Sherlock stood up and gripped John's arms, partly for support, though mainly to get the blond man to focus. "You're panicking. Stop it. I'll be fine." John frowned, worry evident all over his face. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Just... take a breath. You need to do this. Don't worry about me, it isn't going to help." he said sincerely. John nodded and Sherlock let go, limping back to the bed and lying back down, wincing as he raised his leg and stretched to pull the parkas back over him, though he still watched the doctor, standing still on the spot, running a hand through his hair.

"John. _Go_." Sherlock said. John nodded again and turned towards the door, before turning back to the detective.

"Stay awake." he whispered. "Please, just... don't close your eyes."

"I promise, John." Sherlock vowed, as the doctor opened the wooden door and stepped outside.

As soon as he was out, John was hit with a blast of freezing wind. Snowflakes bombarded him as he struggled forward into the blizzard, the cold flecks piercing his skin as he was suddenly aware of the effects from his lack of parka, with only his favourite bomber jacket left as a defence. Still, he didn't regret leaving it with Sherlock; the detective needed it more than he did, anyway.

Alright, perhaps he had underestimated the icy temperatures. He must have only been walking ten minutes, yet he was already stumbling through the thick snow, and beginning to shiver in an attempt to block out the cold. He looked behind him as he struggled up the mountainside and could faintly see the cabin in the distance. A thin trail of smoke was curling away from the chimney, and this spurred him on a little; it wouldn't be long until the fire went out, leaving Sherlock alone to freeze to death. He wasn't going to let that happen.

He was no longer walking, mainly stumbling and tripping every so often. He could barely see where he was going, and he could only hope he was going in a straight line. The exhaustion that was constantly tugging at him caused him to fall to his knees on many occasions, making it harder each time to pull himself back to his feet and continue onwards. The noise from the wind that bashed and battered him was deafening; his senses were becoming more and more mixed up, and he was struggling to work out if he was headed in the right direction. The only thought that was going through his head was _Sherlock_.

He had no idea how long he had been trailing up the mountain, for it seemed to go on forever and he was never any closer to reaching the top. He could no longer feel his fingers and toes, and was fighting with all the strength he had left to keep going. He was trying extremely hard, but by God it was so _cold_. He was constantly shivering, and was only vaguely aware of the alarm bells echoing around his head, and his bruised and beaten shoulder was practically begging him to turn back and seek warmth. But he couldn't. No, he had to keep going, for Sherlock.

John didn't know when he first heard the shout, but more quickly followed it. At first he thought his name was being called, but when he looked up to see two figures dashing down the mountain towards him – one with a machine gun in his hands – he knew immediately he was doomed. Or, more importantly, Sherlock was doomed. John was well aware of the fact that he couldn't put up a fight, but that didn't stop him from trying to back away as quickly as he could. But one of the figures, who was ahead of the other, quickly reached him and strong hands gripped his arms. He tried to struggle, attempted to shake off the other's grip, but they were too strong.

"John! John, it's alright, you're alright." That voice. Oh, he had never been more pleased to hear that voice. With a last effort, he looked into those steel grey eyes and managed one more sentence.

"Sherlock. Please, find Sherlock." he whispered, before passing out into the man's arms.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was running. Well, doing his best to run, seeing as it was exceedingly difficult to sprint through ten inches of snow. During the helicopter ride to the ski resort that had been referred to in the message, he'd had his people update him on Sherlock's latest case. What he'd heard hadn't pleased him.

The gang that were pursuing his brother were lethal. They were well-known in Switzerland, and many of the members were wanted in other countries, dead or alive. Everyone had heard the stories of the deadly methods of torture they used on their victims, and it often left the person not only broken physically, but also mentally. If they found Sherlock then he stood no chance of ever getting him back.

As soon as they had touched down at the ski resort, a search was immediately set about in finding a cabin. The men had split off into pairs, and Mycroft soon found himself with covering the bright white surface with a soldier who looked about twelve. The kid kept fumbling with his machine-gun, and Mycroft could only pray that the kid wouldn't find the trigger whilst aimed at him. Cold air nipped at their faces as they ran, and he could hear his partner muttering about how this was a waste of time, and how cold and tired he was. Oh, how Mycroft hoped he could prove him wrong and wipe that petulant look off his face.

They had barely been running twenty minutes, and they'd just began their quick, albeit a little clumsy, descent down a particularly deep mountain, when the kid cried out and pointed ahead. Mycroft squinted through the blizzard, and he felt his heart sink when he noticed the man's height. This person wasn't tall enough to be Sherlock. Looking again, however, he felt a surge of hope when his eyes fell upon that unmistakable bomber jacket, and the dirty blond hair atop the man's head. How on _earth _had he managed to forget about John Watson? Of course John knew Morse code, and there was no doubt that the doctor would put Sherlock's health ahead of him. He hadn't even _mentioned _himself in that message. Even from here Mycroft could see the way John held his left shoulder stiffly, and he was almost inclined to roll his eyes. That man was stubborn through and through.

Mycroft continued to run down the mountain, leaving the kid behind, and quickly reached John. The doctor looked dead on his feet. He was shivering constantly, and his lips were beginning to turn a shade of blue. Mycroft quickly gripped John's arms before the man keeled over, and he could see the lack of recognition in his eyes. The ex-soldier began to struggle against his grip, trying to break away, and Mycroft quickly sought to calm him.

"John! John, it's alright, you're alright." he said. He watched John pause, before relief seemed to flood through him, draining away his adrenaline, and Mycroft could sense he was going to collapse.

"Sherlock." John whispered, and Mycroft strove to hear him better, "Please, find Sherlock." The government official was about to answer him, but before he could say anything, John's legs buckled and he listed towards him. Mycroft swiftly caught him and gently lowered the doctor onto the snow-covered ground, turning to his partner.

"Radio for the helicopter to be brought here. You know our co-ordinates?" The kid nodded, and walked away, talking quickly into his walkie-talkie as he did so. Mycroft turned back to John, and checked his vitals. His pulse was steady, though a little slow, and his lips were now definitely blue. Why on earth was he only wearing his jacket?

Before he could contemplate any further, a loud whooshing sound blocked out any other noises, and the snow around him swirled in a small whirlwind as a large helicopter landed a few metres away. Three men leapt out, bearing an orange stretcher between them, and wordlessly they lifted John onto it, carrying him back to the helicopter. One of the men jogged up to Mycroft.

"Sir, there's another 'copter on its way, and the pilot says he's found the cabin. It's about a mile in that direction." The man gestured ahead of them, and Mycroft nodded.

"Thank you, Brownley. Tell the pilot to meet me there."

"Yes sir." Brownley trotted off, issuing orders into his radio as he hopped onto the helicopter, which was now taking off. Mycroft quickly began to run the way Brownley was pointing, not caring if his kid was following or not.

Fifteen minutes later and the cabin was in his sights. The helicopter that Brownley had mentioned was already outside the front, and the men were in the process of bringing out a stretcher. When Mycroft saw the pale and lanky figure of his brother on top, he put on another burst of speed which he didn't think he had. Soon he had reached the helicopter, and he quickly climbed inside, sitting down next to Sherlock as the flying machine left the ground.

The detective was half-conscious on the stretcher, mumbling incoherently. Mycroft watched as one of the medics lifted Sherlock's trouser leg, and he winced when he saw the bloody bandages wrapped around it. The wound itself was messy; dried blood caked around the outside, and crimson liquid still oozing from the hole. Thankfully, Sherlock was beginning to warm up. True, when Mycroft grasped his hand he couldn't help but grimace at the temperature, but it was nothing compared to the freezing condition that John was in. As if reading his mind, the twelve year-old stepped forward.

"Sir? We've just received word from the other 'copter. Doctor Watson's conscious now. They say he won't stop asking for your brother." he added with a smile.

Mycroft smiled in return, nodding his thanks before leaning towards Sherlock, squeezing his hand.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?" The detective muttered something and slid his gaze over to Mycroft.

"John?" he mumbled.

"He's fine, Sherlock. No, no, look at me. I haven't finished."

Sherlock sighed imperceptibly before diverting his attention back to his brother.

"Listen to me, Sherlock. Make sure you thank John for what he's done today. He is extremely loyal to you, and you are never going to find anyone better than him. Do you hear me? Good. Don't ever let him go, Sherlock. For both your sakes."


	15. Missing

_**Missing: **__lacking, absent or not found._

"John. John, wake up." Sherlock grasped the ex-soldier's shoulder and shook it lightly. "John!"

"Mmph." was the reply as John rolled over in bed, his back facing Sherlock.

"Get up, John. Come on."

"Mmph. Go 'way, Sh'lock." John muttered.

"No, I need you for something." When the doctor didn't move, Sherlock tried a different approach.

"Up soldier, NOW!" he shouted. John didn't even flinch.

"S'not gunna work."

"Fine." Sherlock moved to the bottom of the bed, and with one quick movement, threw the duvet off the doctor and onto the floor. John grunted in annoyance but didn't move; merely wrapped his arms around his waist to try and preserve some warmth.

Hands on hips, Sherlock tried to think of another way to get John up, until a new idea struck him, and he slowly and silently moved back around the bed so that he was in his original position in the room. Trying to fight off a smile, Sherlock reached forward until his hand was hovering above one of John's legs, and with lightning speed he grasped the ex-soldier's ankle and quickly dragged him out of the bed and onto the floor with a loud _thump_, a startled yelp coming from the doctor.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, still sat on the floor. "What do you want?"

"I have a client." he explained.

"What? At... half five in the morning? Who on earth is it?"

"The Prime Minister."

"_What_?" John struggled to his feet and stared incredulously at Sherlock. "Are you serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know, it could be another ruse to get me out of bed."

"But I've already gotten you out of bed." Sherlock said with a frown.

"Yeah - thanks for that, by the way." John said, rubbing his back where it had made contact with the floor.

"So, are you coming?" the detective asked.

"Yes, yes, just give me a minute." John said. Sherlock nodded and stepped outside. Two minutes later and John was dressed, following the taller man down the stairs and into the living room. True to his word, the current Prime Minister was sat on their sofa, looking about the flat with mild interest. When the two came in, he stood up and offered a hand to John.

"Dr. Watson, a pleasure to meet you." he said with a disarming smile as John shook his hand.

"The pleasure's all mine, sir, I can assure you." the ex-soldier said, returning the smile.

Sherlock coughed loudly, causing the Minister to return to the couch as John retreated to his armchair, Sherlock stood beside him.

"You had a case you wished to consult me on?" the detective asked.

"Yes. I require you to find a missing person, Mr. Holmes." the Prime Minister said, his smile disappearing as they got down to matters.

"Who is it?"

"I can't give his name."

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "Alright then, do you have any idea what might have happened to him?"

The Minister nodded. "He was currently in the middle of tracking down and capturing a dangerous gang that are threatening the safety of England. I strongly believe that it is the same gang that have taken him. They are called the Crimson Blade, and are a nefarious group who specialise in torture. They are usually for hire, however, so I would not be surprised if it was, in fact, someone else who is behind this."

"I see. And the person that's missing is...?" Sherlock pressed.

"Mr. Holmes, I told you I can't say."

"Why not?" John said.

The Minister gave him a long look before turning back to Sherlock. "If word got out that he was missing, England would be in even more trouble."

"I'm afraid I cannot take this case unless I know who this person is." Sherlock said nonchalantly, striding over to the window and picking up his violin.

"It would be better if you didn't know." The Prime Minister said.

Sherlock snorted. "I highly doubt that." He began to stroke the bow across his violin, a low note escaping the instrument.

"It will affect your work."

Sherlock smiled. "The identity of one person will not change my methods. I don't let emotions get the better of me during cases. No worrying, no grieving, no caring."

"Not even for your own brother?" The Minister asked.

There was a loud screech from the violin as Sherlock turned sharply to face him. "Mycroft? Mycroft's been taken?"

The Prime Minister nodded solemnly. "He went missing approximately two days ago-"

"_Two _days? And you are coming to me _now_?" Sherlock seethed.

"Well, I had other individuals out looking for him-"

The detective scoffed. "Useless. They won't be able to find him faster than me."

John coughed lightly at this. The Minister merely raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that my men are-"

"I don't _care _how good your men are. The fact of the matter is that Mycroft would have been found by now had you come to me sooner!"

The politician straightened. "You're so sure of yourself?" he asked.

"Yes." Sherlock said confidently.

The Minister smiled. "I'm sure it would have taken you a week at least."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. John quickly stepped in.

"I'm sure Sherlock will have Mycroft back very soon, sir." he said to the Prime Minister.

The Minister directed his gaze to John, before offering a tight smile. "I hope he will, Doctor. Good day." With that, he strode out of the door and down the stairs, Sherlock and John remaining where they were until they heard the _click _of the front door.

"That moron!" Sherlock exploded, throwing his arms up into the air.

"Sherlock, calm down." John said tiredly, the effects of being woken early still with him. "I'm sure he only had your best interests at heart."

"Oh please," the detective sneered, "He came to me as a last resort - he'd much rather keep this between himself and whatever other imbeciles he had looking for Mycroft."

"Sherlock," John said, a warning in his tone, "This isn't a competition between the two of you. Your brother has been kidnapped, and being snobby and petulant isn't going to help find him."

The detective gazed at him levelly for a while, before storming off to his room and slamming the door behind him. John sighed and made his way into the kitchen, flicking the switch on the kettle and sitting at the table whilst the water boiled and placing his head in his hands. When the water was finished boiling, he soon had the cup of tea ready and he was sat back at the table, sipping his drink as loud thumps from Sherlock's room revealed he was pacing. He could tell the detective was worried; for any other case he would be at the Yard by now and demanding Lestrade tell him everything about the victim. The fact that Sherlock had decided to retreat to his room, away from anybody else, indicated his mind was working at break-neck speed, possibly going into override.

On the other side of the table, a _bzzzzt _sound was coming from his phone, snapping him away from his thoughts. He picked it up, frowning when he didn't recognise the number. Pressing a button, he held the phone to his ear and repressed a yawn.

"Hello?" he muttered.

"Ooh, don't you sound tired, Johnny-boy?"

John froze.

No, that wasn't possible. He was supposed to be dead. But he'd never forget that voice. That sickly, sweet, bone-chilling voice. Every muscle in his body tensed.

"What do you want?" he said firmly, subconsciously getting from the table and standing in the middle of the sitting room.

"Hmm, we're also a little grumpy as well. Why so glum, chum?" John could hear Moriarty's pout on the other end of the phone.

"I said, what do you want?" He found himself unable to move as he spoke, wishing this was all just a dream.

"Can't a person call to have a chat these days?"

"No." John said through clenched teeth. Behind him, he could hear a door open, but he didn't turn around.

"Little bit rude." Moriarty murmured. "It wouldn't hurt to be nice once in a while, would it?"

"What. Do. You. Want?" he hissed, hands balling into tight fists. Suddenly Sherlock was stood in front of him, looking deeply into his eyes, asking silent questions. John returned the gaze, not saying anything.

"Doesn't even answer my questions." the consulting criminal muttered. "Though you're not the only one, Johnny, is he Mycroft?" Moriarty's voice faded as he turned away from the phone. John could feel the blood draining from his face, and Sherlock frowned at him.

"Who is it?" he mouthed.

"Who do you think?" John hissed. Sherlock, too, paled and he gripped John's arms.

"What does he want?" he whispered. John opened his mouth to speak when the voice on the other end caught his attention.

"Johnny? Are you even listening to me? You don't even say anything when I tell you I have Sherlock's brother. Honestly, sometimes it's like talking to a..." Moriarty suddenly gasped mid-sentence, and when he spoke next it was with an excited tone.

"Ooh, is Sherlock there? Oh, put him on! Please, please, please, please, pleeeaaase!" he whined. John shivered and held out the phone. Sherlock snatched it out of his grasp and walked off, growling into the phone as he stormed back to his room, leaving John standing in the living room, dreading what was to come.

* * *

"What do you want, Moriarty?" Sherlock asked as he closed his bedroom door behind him, not bothering to ask the consulting criminal how he'd survived a bullet through his head. Frankly, he really couldn't care.

Moriarty sighed. "You and Johnny-boy ask the same questions, you know that? It's almost as if you have a telepathic link or-"

"Do not play games with me." the detective hissed.

"Or what?" Moriarty's tone had become more serious. "I think you'll find I'm the one with leverage."

"You've got Mycroft." It wasn't a question.

"I don't know why I try to surprise you; you _always _ruin it."

"What are you going to do with him?"

Moriarty chuckled. "You shouldn't be worried about what I'm _going _to do, more like what I've _already _done. Though I'm sure I could have my men find a part of him that's unscathed."

Sherlock's fingers tightened around John's phone. "Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"You tell me."

"Why should I?"

"Because one of my men have just realised that your brother's ankle is still intact, and he's slowly inching towards it. I'd speak, if I were you."

"It's a warning."

"Mmm-hmm."

"If you wanted to threaten me into doing something, you'd have taken John. Therefore, you're only warning me of what you can do, seeing as Mycroft has a high position in the British Government and would be difficult to take. By telling me you have him, you're showing me that it was easy to kidnap him, and it would be much easier to do something else that would seem impossible. More impossible than surviving your own suicide."

The consulting criminal chuckled again. "Not bad, Sherlock. I'm impressed to say that you got it correct, though I'm still unsatisfied." Moriarty's voice faded as he spoke again. "Break his ankle anyway."

"No!" Sherlock shouted, just as there was a sickening _snap _from the other end of the line, followed by a muffled cry. Laboured breathing could be heard, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Come and get him!" Moriaty sang, before the line went dead.

Sherlock continued to hold the phone to his ear, staring at the wall in shock. A light tap on the door jolted him to reality, and he looked around as John poked his head around the door.

"What did he say?" the doctor asked.

"He told me to go and get Mycroft."

"What, just waltz in?"

"It would seem so." A _ping _from his phone alerted him to a text, and he quickly pulled it out of his pocket, handing John's back as he did so. When he opened the text, a large picture dominated the screen, and he blanched when he saw it, though he was unsurprised at Moriarty's destination.

"Where are we going?" John called from the living room, stuffing his gun into the waistband of his trousers as he did so.

Sherlock sighed, "Back to where we first met him."


	16. Missing II

The leisure centre was silent as they walked swiftly through the lobby, which Sherlock supposed was to be expected at 11 o'clock at night. The security system had been easy to disarm, and soon enough they were inside without raising any alarms. As they moved through the corridors, Sherlock instinctively checked around them to ensure they weren't being followed, all the while thinking about the hundreds of possibilities as to how this night could end.

Within five minutes they had reached the pool. Sherlock slowly opened one of the double doors, but he paused, giving into the instinct to glance over his shoulder and confirm that John was still there. The doctor gave him a reassuring smile and tightened his grip on his gun, which he was holding down at his side.

After receiving an encouraging nod from John, the two of them silently stalked into the room, surveying their surroundings to ensure no one was hidden in the shadows and waiting to pounce. Once he was satisfied, Sherlock prowled forward, John following close behind, and looked ahead. What he saw made him stop in his tracks, and caused John to walk into him.

"Ow, sorry," the doctor said, "Everything OK, Sherlock?" he asked, peering around the dark-haired man.

In front of them, on the other side of the pool, sat a wooden chair. Trails of rope were loosely hung around the back, arms and legs, and looking closely, Sherlock could see blood splatters decorating both the chair and ropes, as well as the tiled floor around it. In an almost trance-like state, Sherlock walked towards it. Upon reaching the chair, he looked down on the seat to find a small folded piece of paper. Wordlessly, he picked it up, unfolding the sheet and reading the note, before handing it over to John.

_It would seem that your brother is feistier and stronger than I originally thought! After hearing your little phone call, he began to thrash and hiss at my men, which I simply couldn't allow. Eventually I was able to calm him down, but boy oh boy was he angry! For some strange reason he is under the impression that you're walking into a trap! Well, after confirming his suspicions, I allowed him the chance to leave, though I doubt he'll have gone very far with that ankle. My best guess is that he's gone to find you, as he is confident you won't come here to get him. You guys should really sort out that sibling rivalry thing you've got going on; especially as it's obvious that he cares about his baby brother, and would it hurt to listen to him? Particularly when he was right about walking into a trap. Hopefully you won't be stalled too long; you've yet to locate him..._

_ JM x_

Sherlock could see John sharply look up at him once he'd finished reading the note, but he paid no attention to the doctor. His mind was too busy reeling off deductions about the contents of the letter, and furiously trying to work out where Mycroft could be now, also wondering _why _Moriarty just let Mycroft go. That didn't matter now, though.

It was unlikely that his brother would go to 221B, especially in the state he was in, but where else would he go? His own home was also off the list; if Moriarty was telling the truth, then Mycroft would be trying to find them. He wouldn't stop off at his house in the process.

"Sherlock?" John tried. "Do you think we've really walked into a trap?" As he spoke, John scanned the balcony of the swimming pool, searching for any signs of life whilst readying his gun.

"No." Sherlock muttered, still lost in thought.

"No? How can you be so sure?"

The detective sighed as he faced John, "If Moriarty had set up a trap, something would have happened by now. He has a flair for timing; he would have waited until we'd only _just _finished reading the note, and then he'd have taken action. Having been alerted to the fact that it's a trap, he'll expect us to start searching the pool for the danger, hence being 'stalled', as he said. The search would be time consuming – even with some help – and by the time we'd realise we were perfectly safe, Mycroft's health would have deteriorated significantly."

"Oh. Any idea where your brother is?"

"No." Sherlock said through clenched teeth as he closed his eyes in an attempt to silence the loud whirring noise his mind was making whilst it looked for an answer.

A hand touched his arm. "Sherlock, you alright?"

"I'm fine." Came the short reply.

"Sherlock–"

"I said I'm fine!" he shouted, wrenching John's grip away from his arm.

The doctor watched him patiently, not saying anything. Sherlock continued, screwing his eyes shut as he spoke.

"I am _perfectly _fine. Why wouldn't I be? There is no reason why my mind can't function properly, or why I haven't the faintest idea where Mycroft may be, or what condition he could be in–"

"Sherlock." Both of John's hands were on either side of his face, and the detective opened his eyes to see the ex-soldier watching him with a firm expression.

"Let me guess. You've got that feeling where your stomach is clenching painfully and your heart is thumping loudly. Am I right?" Sherlock nodded, desperate to know what it was. "It's worry. Worry for your brother."

"How do I make it stop?" Sherlock asked quietly, looking down.

"You can't," John smiled, "It'll help you focus, help to concentrate on the case. You need it to keep you alert and aware."

"Case." Sherlock muttered, eyes blazing into John's.

"That's right, this is just another case. Think as you would normally do, but keep that little inkling of worry present. Don't forget the fact that it's your brother, though. Just take a moment to relax and think, let your thoughts lead you." John removed his hands and stepped back, allowing Sherlock some space as the detective acknowledged the thumping of his heart and the clenching of his stomach, but instead of trying to repress it, he let it blossom, allowing his senses to sharpen as other options of Mycroft's whereabouts made themselves known. Suddenly, Sherlock gasped.

"Lead," he breathed, "Mycroft wouldn't be trying to find us; he'd be trying to _lead _us!"

John frowned, "What do you mean?"

Sherlock abruptly grasped John's arms and squeezed them tightly. "Oh, John, you are _brilliant_!"

John frowned, "I am?"

Sherlock released the doctor and began to pace quickly up and down the poolside. "Mycroft's clever; more so than me, I must admit. He would know that I'd come here to find him, and so instead of trying to intercept us, or go somewhere obvious, he'd _lead _us away."

John's frown did not go away, "I still don't follow."

Sherlock sighed, "Your moment of brilliance has passed," he muttered, before turning serious once more and looking at John, his eyes alight.

"Imagine it was you in that chair. You knew that I was coming to get you, so once you'd escaped and I'd arrived to find the empty chair, where would you go to ensure I would find you again?"

"Baker Street." John answered.

"Exactly. But you also know that Moriarty most probably hasn't finished toying with me yet, so Baker Street is a no-go. It is unlikely Moriarty was lying when he said it was a trap, but he didn't say _where _the trap was. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson's away, so no harm will come to her. But I digress.

"So now you know that you can't go to Baker Street, for it will compromise everyone's safety. You need to go somewhere less obvious, somewhere that wouldn't be the first place to spring to mind."

"Bart's?"

"No, too public, and you're bound to be noticed in your condition. Plus Mycroft hates hospitals."

"Scotland Yard?"

"The police are only going to attract attention. My phone is most probably being tapped, which is why Mycroft hasn't called yet, so if Lestrade phoned me, my brother's position would be revealed."

"So where is he?" John asked.

"I don't know!" Sherlock growled, "If I knew that I wouldn't be stood here with you and wasting time!" He sighed, raking his fingers through his hair in frustration. "It has to be somewhere discreet, where people wouldn't look twice if they saw the state you were in..."

The perfect destination suddenly popped into John's head, and he opened his mouth to voice his opinion, but Sherlock was still talking.

"... I could try the Homeless Network on the chance that he's with them, but I doubt Mycroft would go that far. He does so hate getting his suit dirty..."

"Sherlock–"

"... Though his suit is most probably already dirty, not to mention covered with blood. So does that mean he _would _be down alleyways? Seems unlikely..."

"Sherlock, what about–"

"... Oh, what if he went to Mummy's? True, our relationship with our mother is strained most of the time, but it would seem the safest option. He can rely on Mummy not to say anything, plus he can also get his wounds treated. But then again, her house is quite far away, and no doubt Mycroft's phone is being traced too, so..."

"Sherlock!" John shouted.

"_WHAT_?" Sherlock bellowed, turning to face him, "What could _possibly _be better than the ideas I've come up with so far? Are you _honestly _telling me that you can think of a place that is secretive, easy to get to from here, and has people who won't give a damn as to where you've been? Well?"

"Yes, I am." John said boldly.

"Oh really?" Sherlock scathed, "Well go on then, where is he? Hmm?"

"The Diogenes' Club."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but froze before he said anything. Then, the biggest grin plastered his face, his eyes twinkling again. John allowed a small smile.

"Let me guess, I'm brilliant?"

"A genius." Sherlock corrected before rushing out the doors.


	17. Missing III

The cab ride was conducted in silence as Sherlock scanned London outside his window whilst drumming his fingers on his knee. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see John repeatedly throw worried glances in his direction as they neared the Diogenes' Club. Sherlock had half a mind to tell John to stop being so annoying, but he was too distracted to do so. Thoughts were racing through his head at lightning speed, creating possible scenarios of what Mycroft's condition could be when they finally arrived. The phone conversation he'd had with Moriarty only a few hours ago continued to play in his head; the blood-curdling _snap _of his brother's ankle repeatedly tormented him, and he could only sit impatiently and pray that Mycroft would be alright.

He'd never admit it to him, but John had been spot on when he'd diagnosed Sherlock's unease as worry. John had been able to get through to him in his moment of panic, and had helped to calm him down in order to reach the right conclusion... though in all fairness it had been John who'd suggested the Diogenes' Club. He supposed he'd have to thank the ex-soldier later on.

"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock repressed a sigh. _Think of something more interesting to say_, he thought to himself.

"Fine." he snapped, still looking out the window. John was wise enough not to attempt conversation again.

Ten minutes later and the taxi pulled up outside their destination. Sherlock flew out the door and headed to the building, whilst John hurriedly paid the cabbie and tried to catch up with the detective.

The two of them swiftly glided down the long corridor, not paying attention to the murderous glares from the men in the main lounge or the subtle coughs from the staff. They both knew where Mycroft would be, and thirty seconds later the detective and the doctor had barged into Mycroft's private office, freezing at the sight before them.

The government official was slumped in his armchair, his right leg stretched out in front of him whilst bruises and cuts decorated his face, arms, and torso; there wasn't a part of him left unscathed. Mycroft was as pale as a sheet, yet he was valiantly fighting unconsciousness, attempting to sit up straighter at the sight of them.

John rushed forward immediately, his doctor's instincts kicking in, and he firmly told Mycroft to sit still as he examined the official's face, noting the slight winces as the man shifted. Sherlock could only stay where he was, glued to the spot by his brother's appearance. The worry in his stomach was now overwhelming; he had greatly underestimated the state Mycroft was in. John, having noticed that Sherlock hadn't moved, glanced over his shoulder at his friend, before sighing and returning his attention to Mycroft.

"Sherlock, sit down before you fall down." he ordered as he gently rolled up Mycroft's trouser leg. Numbly, Sherlock moved over to the couch in the corner and sank down, eyes fixed on his brother.

"John, I can assure you–"

"Shut up, Mycroft and let me do my job." John interrupted. Mycroft looked slightly offended, but obeyed nonetheless. A slight gasp of pain escaped his lips as John softly prodded his swollen ankle, causing John to scowl inwardly.

"Why haven't you gone to a hospital?" John growled.

Mycroft winced slightly, "Don't need a hospital." he hissed through clenched teeth.

"You're just as stubborn as your brother," John muttered, "This is going to hurt a little." He said as he gently raised Mycroft's ankle and rested it on the edge of the opposite armchair. He then quickly left the room, telling Mycroft not to go anywhere as he went.

"Do you suppose he's going to call an ambulance?" Mycroft asked after a few moments of silence.

"If you don't want to go then he's not going to force you." Sherlock answered. Mycroft nodded absentmindedly, as if having known this would be the answer. Sherlock leant forward.

"Did Moriarty say anything to you?"

Mycroft shook his head, "Nothing that was of importance, anyway. Taunting seemed to be his main tactic."

"Did he question you?"

"Yes, he asked me questions about your personal life, and also John's."

Sherlock tensed. "Did you answer them?"

Mycroft gave a small smile, "Why do you think I look like this?"

Sherlock let out a short laugh, but Mycroft didn't join in. He gave his younger brother a sorrowful look, "I learnt my lesson about revealing information concerning you the first time, Sherlock." he added solemnly. The detective nodded in understanding, looking into his brother's eyes for the first time. He could see the guilt and pain behind that impenetrable mask, but he could find no words to comfort him. This was always how their relationship had been; uncomfortable and tight. Mycroft had been left to look after him when they were younger – their parents having been too busy with their lives to concern themselves with their children – but as Mycroft grew older he became distracted by the bright lights of London, and soon he'd found himself working for the government, severing all connections to his family as he did so. Sherlock had never really forgiven him for abandoning him, but now he could understand why his brother used to scold him for caring. He couldn't think of a way to console his brother, and he hated himself for it.

At that moment, the door to Mycroft's office opened, and John marched back in, carrying two towels and two large bags of ice with him. The doctor quickly wrapped the ice in the towels and then knelt by Mycroft's side. He placed one of the makeshift ice packs on the government official's ankle, causing Mycroft to hiss and jerk forward slightly. John held him back, whispering soothingly as he placed the other pack at the back of Mycroft's head where the doctor had noticed a large gash there earlier.

"Hold the ice pack there, Mycroft." John instructed. Mycroft complied, keeping the pack pressed to his head as John rose and moved over to the elder Holmes' desk and immediately began to rummage through the bottom left drawer. Mycroft frowned and was about to ask John just what he thought he was doing when the doctor interrupted him.

"I've called the hospital." At Mycroft's sharp look, he hastened to explain further, "They're not going to take you to Bart's, but some paramedics are going to come here to treat your ankle and your other injuries. The ice will help reduce the swelling for when they apply a cast, but I don't know whether they're going to X-ray the ankle or not."

"It doesn't need to be X-rayed; any one of us three could tell them where it's broken." Sherlock said. John looked up from the desk and gave him a reproachful look, as if to say _you're not helping_, before looking back down and opening the bottom right drawer. Sherlock smirked.

Ten seconds later and John gave a small exclamation of triumph as he pulled a crystal decanter filled with brandy from the bottom drawer of Mycroft's desk. He poured it into two glasses before moving over to Mycroft and handing him one.

"It'll help to subdue the pain, though obviously not as much as morphine." Mycroft smiled his thanks and accepted the glass. John then headed over to Sherlock and offered the other glass to him. Sherlock looked up.

"I don't drink alcohol." he said.

"I don't care." John retorted, "You're still looking far too pale for my liking and this will help." Sherlock scowled but took the glass, downing the contents in one go.

"May I ask how you knew where my brandy would be? Or the fact that I had my own store of it?" Mycroft asked John.

The ex-soldier smiled, "Well, the fact that you have your own office suggests that you prefer your privacy. Being a government official is a very stressful job, so you're bound to have a drink once in a while. It would be inconvenient to have to ring for one of the staff, and then be interrupted by them during your work. Therefore, it would seem a sensible idea to have your own supply of brandy.

"It's clear that the armchair you're sitting in is your preferred one, seeing as despite the fact you had a broken ankle, you still travelled those extra feet towards your chair, rather than relieve yourself of the pain and sit in the one closer to the door. Judging by the permanent indent on the chair that your ankle's resting on top of, it's easy to see that you get a lot of visitors. I would assume that this brandy is expensive, so you would prefer to keep it hidden rather than use it every time you have a meeting.

"The desk would seem the most obvious place, seeing as you are the only one to use it. You put it in the bottom drawer because if you needed someone to come in here and retrieve something from this desk, they'd only have to look through the first or second row of drawers, leaving your brandy untouched... What?" John looked from one Holmes to the other, frowning at their expressions. Mycroft had raised both his eyebrows and was looking mildly surprised, whilst Sherlock wore the smuggest grin John had ever seen.

Mycroft cleared his throat, "You do realise John, that you sounded exactly like Sherlock when you said that?" he said, eyebrows still raised.

John stared at him in shock for a moment, before composing himself and passing a tired hand over his eyes.

"I'm never going to hear the end of this," he muttered. Sherlock grinned, then began chuckling quietly. John couldn't keep a straight face for very long, however, and he soon found himself giggling alongside Sherlock, who had now gone from chuckling to laughing in a matter of seconds. Mycroft even allowed a small smile.

They were promptly interrupted, though, by a few paramedics scurrying into the room and rushing over to examine Mycroft. Sherlock and John made their excuses to leave and headed out the door, but not before receiving Mycroft's gratitude. The government official had expressed his sincere thanks whilst the medics bustled over him, and the two of them had nodded in appreciation as they left.

Their conversation during the cab ride home was a lot more serious. John finally managed to bring up the subject neither of them wanted to discuss.

"So... Moriarty's alive?" he asked quietly.

"It would seem so." Sherlock answered.

"I thought he was dead." John muttered.

Sherlock offered a sad smile, "You thought I was dead."

John sighed, "So are you telling me you knew he was alive too?"

"No, no I had no reason to believe he was still alive. Of course, you can never be sure with him."

There was silence for a while, before John said, "So what do we do now?"

Sherlock sighed in frustration, "There's nothing _to _do, except wait for him to make a move."

John nodded, "It'll be OK this time." he said, though Sherlock wasn't sure if he was just talking to himself.

"You're so certain?" he asked.

John looked him in the eyes, a determination was visible beneath those hazel irises, "Yes, I'm certain. You've brought down his web, so it's going to take a long time to recover. And when that time comes... hopefully we'll ready."

Sherlock smiled. "You've watched far too many action movies." he said, receiving a harsh nudge in the ribs and a sly grin from John.


	18. Nightmare

_**Nightmare: **__A dream arousing feelings of intense fear, horror and distress._

The first time Sherlock decided to wake John Watson from a nightmare, his reward had been a gun pointing at him. Maybe he should have seen it coming. After all, shaking the man awake probably hadn't been the best method.

Sherlock had been in the kitchen late one evening, in the middle of a very complex experiment, when a shout from upstairs made him jump, causing his hand to jerk and spill hydrochloric acid over his arm. Cursing, he leapt up from the chair and quickly ran his arm under the sink, letting the cool water wash off the irritant acid. The sound of yelling could still be heard coming from John's room, and Sherlock frowned. John was a lot more vocal tonight than he usually was. Sitting back at the table, he soon found that he could not continue his experiment unless there was complete quiet.

With an exasperated sigh, the detective moved from the kitchen into the living room, then silently darted up the stairs until he was stood outside of John's bedroom. Gently pushing open the door, Sherlock peered inside to see John in the middle of his bed, his sheets tangled around his waist and restricting his leg movement, which seemed to aggravate the doctor even more. A light sheen of sweat covered his face as he tossed and turned, muttering incoherently and occasionally letting out a sharp yelp.

Sherlock walked over to John's bedside and looked down at the distraught soldier, thinking of a way to keep him quiet so he could continue his experiment in peace. He supposed waking him would be the best course of action, but how to do that?

Somewhat hesitantly, the consulting detective placed his hands over John's shoulders, and shook him slightly. When John didn't wake, Sherlock applied a little more force.

"John," he whispered, "John, wake up." The doctor continued to mutter and began to struggle under Sherlock's grip, trying to bat his arms away. Sherlock frowned, and attempted to hold John still; keeping a firm handle on his shoulders as the blond man began to thrash more violently, causing the detective to duck every so often to prevent himself from receiving a black eye from one of John's fists.

Panicking slightly, Sherlock quickly climbed upon the bed and straddled John, trapping the ex-soldier's arms underneath his legs as the doctor's shouting got louder and more persistent.

"John!" he all but yelled, "It's just a dream... it's not real!" Of course, John paid no attention to his words, but was now trying with all his might to get rid of the threat that was currently sitting on his stomach and grasping his shoulders. Sherlock found his grip tightening in anxiety, and involuntarily, he squeezed John's left shoulder.

Immediately, John bolted upright, throwing Sherlock from the bed as he did so. The detective landed hard on his back, but before he had time to stand the doctor had leapt on top of him, reversing their positions as John sat atop him and restrained his arms and just as quickly pressed his gun against Sherlock's head.

For a minute neither of them moved. The only sound that could be heard was that of John's heavy breathing coming in short gasps. Sherlock didn't speak; he kept eye contact with the ex-soldier and tried his best not to move, not even a little bit. Eventually he saw recognition spark in John's eyes, and as soon as the doctor realised what he was doing, he had pushed himself away from Sherlock and scrambled across the room until his back hit the wall. He threw the gun as far away from him as possible and shakily put his head in his hands, bringing his knees to his chest.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," John whispered. "Don't you _ever _do that again."

Sherlock slowly sat up, but remained where he was. He cleared his throat nervously, "Do what, exactly?" he asked.

"Don't... I don't know, just don't do... _that_."

Sherlock smiled, "You've always had a way with words, John."

John glared up at him, fury swirling in his hazel eyes. "Do you think this is funny?" he croaked, his hands shaking as he tugged at his hair.

The detective sobered and slowly began to crawl towards John. The doctor looked up and watched him warily.

Sherlock reached the wall and sat next to John, his head leant back as he gazed at the ceiling. "No, I don't find this funny." he said softly. "I was just trying to make the situation lighter."

"Well don't." John growled, looking down at his hands which were resting on top of his knees. "For God's sake, I could have killed you." he whispered.

"You wouldn't have."

John shook his head, "How can you be so sure?"

"Well for one, the gun's empty. I used up the bullets by firing them at the wall the other day."

John smiled, letting out long breaths as he began to calm down. "Mrs Hudson's going to have a fit." he said.

"She already has," Sherlock admitted, looking across at his friend. "She said that if I did it again, the next head in the fridge would be mine."

John started chuckling, a genuine smile gracing his features.

Sherlock continued, "Of course, I then proceeded to tell that she would, in fact, have to catch me first. She made a firm promise that she would."

"Really?" John asked, meeting Sherlock's gaze and still smiling.

Sherlock returned the smile, "Why do you think I've been spending so much time at Scotland Yard?"

John started to laugh then. Full, proper laughs that shook his small body. Feeling as though he were infected by the giggles, Sherlock began to chuckle alongside him, thankful that the tense moment was gone, and also feeling quite proud that it had been himself who had dispelled it.

Once the pair had stopped laughing, Sherlock picked himself up from off the floor, turning to offer a hand to John. The doctor took it and let himself be helped up.

"What was the other reason?" John asked quietly.

"Hmm?"

"Just now, when I asked why you were so sure that I wouldn't shoot you, you began your sentence with 'well, for one...', implying there was another reason. What was it?"

Sherlock gave a small smile, "You are too good a man to pull that trigger, John."

"Don't sound so certain." John argued, looking down. "I didn't know who you were, and for all I knew, you could have been someone I was fighting back in Afghanistan."

"And yet you still hesitated." said Sherlock. "Which suggests that even in the middle of a warzone, you didn't want to cause casualties. You're a soldier at heart John, but no soldier wants to kill others if they can avoid it."

John looked up at the detective with something akin to remorse and guilt twinkling in his eyes, "I wasn't lying when I told you I'd killed people, Sherlock." he mumbled.

"I've no doubt about it. But that doesn't make you a cold, ruthless murderer. I'm sure it was in self-defence, though, am I right?"

John nodded, "We had been ambushed at a small village. I had no choice." The last sentence came out in a whisper as John took a shaky breath.

"Is that what you dream about? Having to shoot other people?"

The doctor frowned, as if he didn't understand the question, but after a second he nodded once more, "That and being shot myself."

"It happened at the same time, didn't it?"

"Yes." John murmured, "But I don't want to talk about it." he added firmly.

"Of course." Sherlock agreed. All the time he'd known John, the doctor had never said a word about his experience in Afghanistan. Sherlock hadn't pressed him for details; he knew John was uncomfortable talking about it – he'd seen it when officers at the Yard asked him questions about why he'd been sent back home. John had answered in short, cold responses, and the person asking was wise enough not to go any further.

"I'm – er – I'm going to make some tea. Do you want some?" John asked, interrupting Sherlock's reverie.

"Please." The detective answered. John left the room and Sherlock could hear him padding down the stairs. Sherlock picked up the gun from the floor and placed it on John's bedside table, before following the doctor down and into the living room.

He moved across the floor and scooped up his violin, then stood in front of the window. He began to play a slow, gentle melody as John set down a cup on the table next to him without speaking, before sitting down on the sofa, watching the detective's back. Sherlock closed his eyes and let his fingers guide his bow across the hoarse strings, rising and falling with every octave, and swaying as the tune kept a steady beat. After ten minutes of playing, Sherlock finished with a flourish of his bow and set down the violin on his chair.

When he looked up to the couch, he was unsurprised to see John lying across it, eyes closed and arms wrapped tightly around himself. Sherlock smiled and gathered up the old afghan blanket, draping it across the doctor whilst adjusting the cushion behind his head. John sighed contentedly and smiled ever so slightly when Sherlock ran a smooth thumb gently along the doctor's forehead.

The detective then walked over to John's chair and settled down in it, reminiscing about the evening. He had noticed John frown earlier, when he'd asked if the doctor dreamt about the war. He understood now that John had not been unsure of the question, but rather he had been hesitating about the answer. John was incredibly proud and stubborn, so Sherlock knew he was never going to fully know the extent of the ex-soldier's dreams, but he now realised how much his own actions regarding the Reichenbach case had affect John. Indeed, it was clear that they haunted the doctor's subconscious, and perhaps that was what John had been dreaming about tonight.

Sherlock knew that falling from the rooftop had been a necessary action, and also having to stay away for three years had been crucial, but he silently promised himself and John that he would never leave home again.

Sitting in the chair, Sherlock picked up a book from the floor and began flicking through the pages, knowing the one thing John needed the most, and yet had been too proud to ask for. He started to read through the pages of the novel, betting to himself that he would finish the story before his night time vigil was over.

He never did finish the story. It seemed that his bodily needs had overpowered his brain, and within three hours of reading, he had fallen asleep in the chair. When he awoke the next morning, it was with some surprise to find a cup of steaming coffee placed on the table nearby, and the old afghan blanket spread carefully across him.


	19. Observations

_**Observation: **__The action or process of observing something or someone carefully or in order to gain information._

It was true that Sherlock Holmes saw far more than other people did. Other people saw but they did not _observe_. They didn't observe their fellow passengers on the train, merely noticed them and judged without the facts. They only saw the tatty clothes on the young woman sat opposite them, the tightly tied hair, the heavy make-up, and decided that she was someone who should not be approached. They didn't _observe _the bruises that were hidden by the make-up, the red rimmed eyes that were fast becoming permanent, the gaze that refused to make eye contact, or the way she held her arms tightly around her body. Had they observed this, they would have come to the conclusion that the woman was someone who could, in fact, be approached, and then taken to a hospital.

John Watson didn't have to be a genius to know that Sherlock thought him an idiot. Though, apparently, he was a smart idiot, if that made sense. He was smart enough to notice the little things about people, yet not smart enough to correctly deduce what those little things meant. He had been reminded constantly of this fact, but he brushed it off with an eye-roll and a small smile. Still, Sherlock wasn't completely perfect.

The case had gone smooth enough, if you could call chasing a suspect across rooftops smooth. Initially, though, they had been running through numerous alleyways until their suspect, or Thomas Chilcott as he is actually known, decided to run up a fire escape and race through the building, dodging office workers and sprinting up never ending staircases until he led them onto the roof.

John had managed to run in front of Sherlock, which wasn't surprising seeing as the detective had recently pulled a muscle in his left leg and so was finding it difficult to keep up with the culprit and the army doctor. Once they reached the roof, John had pelted after Chilcott without so much as looking back at Sherlock. The detective saw the doctor tense up as he prepared to jump from one rooftop to the next, and he _observed _the way John balled his left hand into a fist, clearly showing he was worrying about his leg giving out on him. The leap went unhindered, though, and although John landed heavily on his feet and stumbled a little, he had soon picked himself back up and was sprinting after Chilcott again. Sherlock wasted no time in staring, however, and he quickly ran after the two of them, going as fast as he could so that he'd get a good run up. He reached the ledge that guarded the rim of the roof, and quickly bounded up using his left leg, then sprung effortlessly across the gap.

Well, that was how he had planned it to go.

Unfortunately, at the moment he jumped upon the ledge, his injured leg gave out on him and he wobbled, before bending his knees and pushed himself forward – despite the fact that he had now slowed down and had lost all his momentum – flailing towards the other roof. Time seemed to slow down as he watched John chasing Chilcott, preparing to jump the next roof and apparently not worried about what Sherlock was doing behind him. He noticed Chilcott glance behind him momentarily, but it was still long enough for the two of them to make eye contact, and both of them knew Sherlock wouldn't make it to the rooftop. He saw the wry grin spread across the suspect's features, and _observed _his slight decrease in speed and the way Chilcott's eyes flickered over to John, as if knowing that he'd be able to take on the army doctor, especially now that Sherlock was... preoccupied.

He saw all this in a second, and in the next his mind was issuing orders, screaming at his arms to grab hold of something, _anything_. His fingers scraped the edge of the roof and the rest of his body slammed into the building. He let out a sharp cry as his leg rammed the hard bricks, but he firmly kept hold of the ledge.

Sherlock contemplated calling out for John, but if the doctor were to halt and turn around, Chilcott was bound to attack him. For that reason he remained quiet and tried to gather all the energy he had left and focus entirely on pulling himself up. His fingers protested vehemently at the action, and all the muscles in his arms tensed as hard as they could during the effort. His grip was beginning to slacken, but with one last effort he pushed, and miraculously his hand surged forward, grappling onto the opposite side of the ledge. He almost let out a cry of relief, but the feeling quickly passed when he happened to look down at the 70 foot drop below him. His brain instantly started yelling _whatever you do, don't let go!_

Sherlock winced as his other hand also reached the other side of the ledge, and gradually, he began to pull himself upwards. His feet scrambled at the wall, searching for some sort of grip to get him up, but found none, making the process even more slow.

He didn't get very far, however, when suddenly a face loomed over him, and it was not the face he was hoping to see. Thomas Chilcott grinned and placed his foot over Sherlock's right hand. Bit not good. And where was John? This was definitely not good.

"Say goodbye, Mr Holmes." Chilcott growled. He pushed down on the detective's hand and began twisting his foot, grinding his shoe against Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock hissed but refused to let go. Chilcott added more weight, and soon bolts of pain were flashing down his arm. Eventually, he couldn't hold on any longer, and his hand flew down next to his body, leaving him suspended by just his left hand. Chilcott wasted no time in moving his foot towards that hand, and promptly began stamping harshly against it. The detective desperately tried to swing his right arm towards the ledge, but he couldn't find the energy to do so. He could only hope that Chilcott may have a change of heart and leave him be...

Oh, who was he kidding? He was doomed.

Chilcott seemed to know this too. His grin widened as he continued to stomp down on him, and soon his bruised hand couldn't take it anymore. He could feel his fingers slipping, until they were back in their original position, on the outside of the ledge. He gave himself ten seconds before he let go and plummeted to his death. Sherlock sighed, ignoring the pain in his right hand.

Before he had a chance to contemplate his death further, a strong arm wrapped itself around Chilcott's neck. The suspect gasped as he was dragged away from Sherlock, but that didn't help the detective to relinquish his grip on the ledge. His fingers were still sliding, and he no longer had the strength to find the strength to pull himself up. He could hear two people scuffling on the rooftop, but that was in the back of his mind as one finger, two fingers, _three _fingers let go. He was now being held up by only his index finger. He didn't even think that was possible.

The second his finger left the ledge (and he noted with mild interest that he seemed to freeze momentarily in mid-air) a foreign hand clasped around his left arm, preventing him from falling. Sherlock looked up into the face of John Watson, and gave the biggest smile he'd ever given. John looked into his eyes and grimaced.

"You are _not _falling from another rooftop, Sherlock Holmes." he grunted.

"Glad we're on the same page." Sherlock replied.

"This is so bloody typical of you." John muttered as he reached out his left hand. "Grab my hand."

Sherlock suddenly found new strength, and he managed to swing his right arm up, allowing John to take hold of it. Sherlock made sure to get a firm grip of John's arms, before looking up at the doctor.

"So, what now?" he asked.

John pursed his lips, "Not entirely sure." he said, looking behind him. "Got any ideas?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't be asking you, would I?"

"Right." John nodded, "Don't suppose you called Lestrade or someone?"

"What, whilst I was dangling from the roof?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I meant before we ran after Chilcott." John sighed.

"Um... no."

"Didn't think you had." the doctor muttered. His mind presented an idea, and with nothing else to go on, he planted his feet against the ledge and began to pull Sherlock upwards, slowly but surely. He had to suddenly stop when Sherlock cried out.

"Ah! John, stop! Stopstopstopsto–"

"Yes, alright! I heard you the first time. What's the matter?"

"My grip's slipping... give me a minute." Sherlock grunted as he readjusted his hold on John's arms. The doctor rolled his eyes.

"Oh, take your time, please."

Sherlock sniffed, "I will, thank you very much. You're not the one hanging off a rooftop... Alright, I'm ready now." he said expectantly, tugging on John's arms.

"Ouch, Sherlock! Watch my arm!"

"There's nothing wrong with your arm."

John was _this close _to banging his head against the ledge in frustration. "No, Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with my arm," he muttered, "but my arm is joined to my _shoulder_, which, at the minute, is killing me."

"What, this shoulder?" Sherlock pulled John's left arm, eliciting a hiss from the ex-soldier.

"Yes _that _shoulder. You knew it was that one, so what the hell did you that for?"

"Just trying to make the situation lighter." Sherlock answered.

"Is this your way of making me laugh? By causing me pain? You forget that you're dangling from a roof with a 70ft drop, and I'm the only thing that's keeping you from falling." John raised his eyebrows as he looked down at Sherlock.

"Hmm, it's a fair point," John smiled smugly, "but we're still no closer to getting me up."

"Yes, I know, but–"

"So, I get a call telling me that three men are jumping across rooftops, and could I sort it out immediately? Now, how did I know that you two would be involved?"

Sherlock looked up as Detective Inspector Lestrade peered over the edge, smiling down at him. Sherlock saw John's face wash over in relief as Lestrade bent down and grabbed his right arm, and he observedthe way John's eyes closed briefly, now that he was relieved of the pressure of keeping Sherlock alive.

"I don't know where you get your premonitions, Greg." John smiled.

"Mmm, they're certainly bizarre." Lestrade answered.

"I'm still here you know. Just... hanging from a rooftop" Sherlock said, sighing exasperatedly.

"Yes, how could we possibly forget you?" John sighed, "Ready?" he asked Lestrade. The DI nodded and, after John counted to three, the two of them hauled Sherlock upwards and over the ledge with all their strength. Sherlock managed to get some footing on the building and after a few seconds he found he could use the wall to walk up. A short time after and Sherlock had elegantly jumped down onto the rooftop, leaving John and Lestrade to fall back against the floor, trying to catch their breath. Sherlock brushed his coat down, removing any brick dust from his clothing and acting as if nothing had happened at all.

The detective looked down at the two men just as Lestrade clumsily patted John on the arm, before sitting up and then getting to his feet. The DI walked over to the unconscious form of Thomas Chilcott, before looking to Sherlock.

"What happened to him?" he asked.

"I knocked him out." John said from the ground.

"Any particular reason why?" Lestrade asked, though he didn't seem to care too much.

"He assaulted me before trying to kill Sherlock."

Lestrade nodded, before pulling out his phone. "I'll tell the Yard what happened, and I'm going to need you two to give statements later on." he said as he made his way to the door and left.

Sherlock looked over to John. "You alright?" he asked.

John huffed a laugh, "Like you said, I wasn't the one hanging from a roof. I should be asking you that."

"I'm fine." Sherlock assured as he sat down next to the doctor.

"No you're not. Your leg gave out on you and there was a big possibility that you could have fallen to your death. You're telling me that you're not even a little shaken?"

Sherlock shook his head, "I don't feel any different as to when I did a few hours ago."

John smiled. "Fair enough. You tell me if anything changes though, OK?"

"Sure." Sherlock answered. "Hungry?"

"Starving." John said with a grin. Sherlock saw the ex-soldier grimace as he pushed himself up, and he observed the slight tremor in his left hand once he stood. Sherlock got up and faced him.

"Is your shoulder hurting?" he asked.

"I wasn't lying when I told you that." John said.

"Sorry." Sherlock muttered.

"It's fine," John assured, "And you were right, it did make the situation lighter."

"It did?"

"Yeah. I mean, arguing with you took my mind of the position we were in." he said with a smile.

"I'm glad I could help. We should argue more often."

John chuckled, "Fine, just as long as we stay away from rooftops." he muttered.

"Agreed." Sherlock smiled as they walked towards the door.

"I still can't believe you were stupid enough to run after us with your leg in that condition."

"Well I couldn't let you pursue Chilcott alone." Sherlock said as they headed down the stairs.

"What, you don't think I couldn't take him on?" John asked defensively.

Sherlock gave him a look. "Have you already forgotten the fact that he overpowered you?"

"Technically, I was caught unawares. After all, you had just mysteriously vanished."

"Whatever you say."

"Seriously? You don't think I could've apprehended him?" John asked incredulously.

"Oh no, if you say you could take him, I believe you 100%."

The two left the building and stood on the side of the street, waiting for a cab. John watched him suspiciously.

"You're lying." he announced. "You really don't think I could do it, do you?"

"Be reasonable, John. I have complete faith in your abilities." John relaxed a little at this, just as a cab pulled up alongside them. "Though whether you'd be able to defend yourself against _him_, I don't know. I mean, did you see the size of him?" Sherlock asked as he quickly ducked into the cab, leaving a gobsmacked John stood out on the pavement.


	20. Paternal

**A/N: Just so you know, this one makes references to the Jinx chapters.**

_**Paternal: **__an affectionate characteristic of being a father._

Sherlock sat in his armchair with a frown on his face, looking at the invitation sat in his lap. He then looked up and over to John, who was lying on the couch with his eyes closed, though he obviously wasn't asleep. He looked back down at the invitation again.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"What's wrong?" the detective asked.

John sighed, "Nothing, Sherlock. Just a bad day at work, is all."

"You have a headache."

"Yes."

"You're shoulder's aching."

"Yes."

"You're tired."

"Yes."

"You're going to make me a cup of tea."

"Ye – what?" John looked across to Sherlock with his eyebrows raised. Sherlock smiled.

"I was joking." he said.

"Hmm. A good thing, too. Because the reply you'd have gotten if you weren't wouldn't have been something you'd like."

"You're also indecisive." Sherlock said, ignoring John's previous comment and glancing down at the invitation in his hands.

"If you say so." John said noncommittally.

"I do say so."

John sighed again, "Alright, I'll bite. What am I indecisive about?"

Sherlock waved the invitation in the air, "You don't know whether you want to go to–" he read the invitation, "–'the 30th wedding anniversary of Ruth and George Watson'." he watched John, who didn't answer. "Any particular reason why?" he prompted.

"Nope." John said. To prevent any further conversation, he rolled over on the sofa, so that his back was facing Sherlock. _Bit rude_, Sherlock thought to himself, before realising that he'd done it a dozen more times to the doctor.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"Why don't you want to go?"

There was a long pause, before John spoke, "It's none of your business, Sherlock."

"Since when did that stop me?" the detective asked.

Sherlock could see John relax slightly, and he was sure the doctor was sporting a small smile. Still, though, John didn't say anything.

Sherlock cleared his throat, "Do you remember when we went to America?" he asked. No answer. He continued.

"I'm sure you'll recall meeting Josie Marx and her daughter, Milly. You and the child seemed to have a... connection." Nothing.

"Do you remember telling me that Ms Marx was a bad mother? When I asked you about it... you said you knew a bad parent when you saw one."

He could see John stiffen. "Where are you going with this?" the ex-soldier asked, turning to face Sherlock.

"Did you have an abusive relationship with your parents?"

John said nothing for a while; he just stared up at the ceiling. After a minute or so, he sighed.

"I wouldn't call it abusive, more like strained." he muttered.

"Why?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not?"

John frowned, looking across to the detective. "Because it's personal, and private, and talking about it would make me feel uncomfortable."

"Will you at least tell me why you won't go to this party? Lots of people are there, so it'd be easy to avoid them."

"What would you do if I did go?" John asked, side-stepping the question.

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably conduct some more experiments. Actually, I've been planning to measure the time it takes for stomach acid to–"

"I don't think I want to know, Sherlock." John groaned. "I'm going to go to bed. Night."

Without waiting for a response, the doctor got up from the couch and tiredly made his way upstairs. Sherlock watched him go, before picking up his violin from the floor and plucking at the strings softly.

His mind began to wonder what John's childhood must have been like for him to close up; normally he talked for the both of them, whether Sherlock was there or not. It was clear from the way John acted nowadays that he'd had to mature quickly in order to look after himself. The way he made dinner without question instead of moaning about having to cook. The way he sat with Sherlock during one of the detective's danger nights instead of retreating to the safety of his room. The way he pestered Sherlock into eating and sleeping instead of leaving the younger man to starve or collapse from exhaustion.

Those examples, and so many more, showed how John must have lived when he was younger. How he must have cooked the meals for himself and his little sister, instead of hoping his parents would do it. How he most probably stayed by Harry's side when she came home drunk, instead of hoping his parents would do it. How he would have made sure his sibling stayed healthy by ensuring she ate and slept regularly, instead of hoping his _parents would do it_.

Sherlock didn't know how he couldn't have reached this realisation sooner. He'd been able to deduce John's psychosomatic limp and alcoholic sister in a heartbeat, yet he'd failed to notice how the doctor had never had a childhood.

"Will you come with me?"

Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and looked over to the doorway to see John stood in his pyjamas, watching him with a cautious yet hopeful expression.

"Come with you where?"

"To the... to the party."

Sherlock frowned, "Why would you want _me _to come?"

John gave a small smile, "So I'd have someone to talk to." he answered.

The frown did not go away, "Can't you take someone else? What about Mike Stamford?"

John's smile vanished. "Mike won't want to go." he said quietly.

"Why not?"

"Because he's met my dad." the doctor said with a hollow laugh.

"What makes you think I'd want to meet him?"

"I– oh, never mind." John turned around and went to go back upstairs, but Sherlock quickly leapt up from his chair and crossed the room in three quick strides. He grabbed John by the wrist, stopping him on the second stair, and spun him around.

"John, I didn't mean to imply that I wouldn't come, it's just I don't think I can be... supportive if I'm not aware of the situation you're in."

John gazed at him levelly for a while, before sighing and looking down. "It's not both my parents, just my father. We've... er... always had a tense relationship and have never really gotten along."

"Why don't you get along?"

The ex-soldier hesitated. It was clear that he was very uncomfortable talking about this, but Sherlock needed (and also wanted) to know why John was so closed off about his past.

"He... never seemed to appreciate me. I got the best grades during school, but Dad didn't say a word about them. Not even a 'well-done'. Once I'd graduated medical school, my mother threw a party for me and my friends. Dad didn't even turn up. I know it sounds a bit needy, but being rejected by him hurt a lot. When I joined the army, Dad refused to speak to me. He ignored my calls, and pretended I wasn't there when I visited.

"One day I confronted him about it. I demanded to know what his problem was, and told him I wasn't going to leave until he spoke to me."

"What did he say?" Sherlock asked gently.

John looked him firmly in the eye. "He told me he was disappointed. I'd known he'd always wanted me to do something more productive in medicine, but he'd said that he wasn't surprised I'd taken the easy route and gone for the army. We had a big argument, and it ended with him telling me I was useless and a waste of space... Lots of things were thrown, and after that I moved out. I must have been about twenty."

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said, feeling a little sympathetic towards the doctor. John was the last person on earth who deserved to be treated like that, and just thinking about how the soon-to-be soldier must have felt at the time made something within him stir.

John shrugged. "Don't be. It's hardly your fault."

"Were you ever struck?"

There was the hesitation again, though this time no words followed.

"John?"

"Twice." he admitted. "Once during the same argument. Apparently shouting back at him wasn't taken well. I received a black eye for it."

"And the other time?" Sherlock prompted.

"When I was sixteen. It was after I'd gotten my exam results, and I was so pleased with them that I rushed into his office and waved the piece of paper under his nose, waiting for him to notice me. He told me to go away – said that he was too busy to look – but when I repeatedly told him to see what I'd got, he grabbed my outstretched arm and then hit me. After that he tore up my results and warned me never to disturb him again."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "That was harsh."

"Yeah, well he ran a very strict household."

"Was your sister ever hit?"

"No." John said gladly, "Mum absolutely refused to let Dad go anywhere near Harry. I guess she thought I could cope on my own."

"I see." Sherlock said, "Do you still want me to go with you?"

John nodded a little. "If you want to, that is. I'll understand if you'd prefer to stay here."

"No, it's fine. It'll be something to stop me from getting bored."

The doctor grinned. "Yeah. People watching is your thing, and where better to do it then at a party with seventy-odd guests?"

"You mean I could analyse everyone?" Sherlock said hopefully, eyes twinkling at the thought.

"Everyone. It'll certainly provide some entertainment for me, too." John said, still smiling.

"Even Harriet?"

"Even Harriet." John confirmed.

"Even your mother?"

"Even my mother."

"...Even your father?"

John's smile grew just a little more, "Even my father."


	21. Paternal II

It was now an hour until the party, and Sherlock was stood in his hotel room, straightening his jacket in the mirror. The invitation had stressed the point that formal attire was to be worn, and so Sherlock had resignedly fished out his sleek black dinner jacket and bow tie from amongst his wardrobe in Baker Street in order to look presentable at the party. He had to admit that he was anxious about meeting John's parents, especially his father, and he wondered whether they'd like him. He wasn't expecting them to; after all, not many people did, but for some reason he hoped they'd at least enjoy his company.

A sharp rap at the door interrupted Sherlock from his thoughts, and he quickly gave himself a once over in the mirror before moving over to the door and opening it to reveal John Watson stood before him, dressed in a dapper grey suit and black tie with shiny black shoes.

"Ready to go?" he asked Sherlock.

"I – yes. Wait," he called as John turned to leave. The doctor looked back at him. "You're not going to wear your dress uniform?"

John hesitated, "Ah, no. It would probably be best if I didn't."

Sherlock frowned. "Really? He's got a problem with what you wear?"

"Er, kind of. I haven't seen him for twenty years, so I don't really want to do anything to aggravate him, you know?"

"No, I don't know." Sherlock replied, "It's not up to your father to decide what you can and can't wear. If I were you I'd–"

"Sherlock," John interrupted with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "It doesn't matter. Can we please just go and get this over with?" Right. This wasn't about Sherlock. He just needed to step aside and let John stand in the spotlight for once.

"Of course." Sherlock said, following John out of the hotel room and down the long corridor until they were stood outside on the pavement and waiting for the car that had been sent to pick them up by John's mother.

"Nervous?" the detective asked.

"Extremely." the doctor answered

"Scared?"

"Very."

Sherlock paused, thinking a little, "Excited?" he asked.

John smiled slightly, "Definitely."

At that moment their ride pulled up, and Sherlock and John got into the back. Sherlock watched his friend from the corner of his eye as the doctor leaned back a little against his seat in an attempt to relax, though from the way he was clutching the armrest and bouncing his right leg up and down all revealed how tense he was. He could see John taking deep breaths every so often, and he noticed the way his mouth was set in a thin line, clearly showing that the doctor was playing out the worst scenarios of how this evening could go in his mind.

Sherlock reached across and placed a hand on his knee, squeezing it gently, "John," he said softly, "It's all going to be fine, I promise."

John looked across at him, his eyes twinkling as he attempted a smile. "You can't know that, Sherlock." he muttered, looking out the window and avoiding his friend's critical yet empathetic gaze. "What if he still hates me?"

"He's never hated you." Sherlock said firmly, "Perhaps he hasn't been the most attentive of father's, but that doesn't mean he despises the sight of you. I'm sure he's got his reasons for shutting you out, you just don't know them."

"If you were in my position, Sherlock." John began, still watching the scenery fly by outside the window. "If you had been invited to this anniversary dinner, knowing your father would be there and would most likely ignore you, would you still go?"

"No." Sherlock answered truthfully, "I've done nothing wrong, so I don't see why I should have to be the one to try and make amends. But you have a hell of a lot more compassion that me, John. Out of you and your father, you are by far the better man for at least giving this reunion a go."

The doctor said nothing, though his gaze had now travelled down and had rested on the floor, looking at the flecks of dirt and dust that decorated it.

"You said you were excited to see him," Sherlock continued, "Most people would have said no at that question. They would be dreading seeing their parent again after all they'd been put through, but as well as feeling that, you're also eager to talk to him once more. If your dad still ignores you after tonight, John, then he's lost a remarkable son."

John finally looked up at him, gratitude gleaming in his eyes. Before he could say anything, however, the car pulled up outside John's parents' house. The doctor took a deep breath before stepping out the car and waiting on the pavement for Sherlock. When the detective joined him, the two of them walked up the few steps and stood outside the door.

In his hand, John held an elegantly wrapped gift, which inside contained a diamond encrusted carriage clock. He could feel the object weighing heavily in his grip, and at that moment he wished for nothing more than to throw the clock aside and bolt down the street, getting as far away from this house as possible. The comforting hand on his shoulder, however, kept him grounded.

The front door opened to reveal a short woman, perhaps slightly taller than John, with her long blonde hair tied back in an elegant bun. Laugh lines decorated her aging face, but the soft make-up she was wearing complimented her age greatly. She was wearing a long, navy blue dress and a silver necklace hung around her neck. Upon opening the door, her eyes immediately flew to John, and a beautiful smile graced her face.

"John, honey, it's been far too long." She took a few steps forward and pulled John into a tight embrace. The doctor wrapped his arms across her back and hugged her just as tight. When they moved apart, John gave her a warm smile.

"Hi, Mum. It's great to see you too."

Ruth Watson was unable to wipe the smile from her face. "Dear me, look how much you've changed. You're so handsome and trim in that suit."

John rolled his eyes and brushed aside the comment. "Mum, this is my friend, Sherlock." he moved aside and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, who smiled graciously at her.

Without hesitation, Mrs Watson stood in front of Sherlock and pulled him into a hug also, circling her small arms around his wiry frame. John met the detective's eyes over his mother's shoulders, and gave him a pleading look, asking him to play along. Sherlock cast him a reassuring glance as he tenderly patted her back.

Finally, Mrs Watson let go, but kept her hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "Any friend of John's is a friend of the Watsons. He's told me so much about you." she said fondly, and Sherlock could tell she was already thinking of a Christmas present to buy him.

"Well, come on in," Mrs Watson babbled, waving her arm towards the open door. "Everything's set up in the garden, so if you want to just head on through and grab a drink..."

"Thanks, Mum." John cut her off with a smile as he presented the wrapped gift to her, who accepted it with a peck on the cheek, and then lead Sherlock inside the house and through the hallway.

Photos were hung up on the walls, and as he walked by them, the detective could see pictures of John when he was about twenty, with a smile on his face in every one, though in some of them they seemed a little forced. Deciding it would be best not to ask his friend about them, he carried on out of the corridor, through the small kitchen and into the garden.

Unlike the rest of the house, the Watsons' garden was very large. White circular tables along with gleaming white chairs had been placed around the outskirts of the lawn, whilst a temporary wooden floor covered the middle. Also, wooden beams had been planted around the perimeter, with yellow fairy lights dangling from them. A large, overhead trellis hung above their heads, and a number of white paper lanterns made the place look all that more picturesque. Amongst the tables sat around twenty people, all chatting to each other, and other guests were dancing and laughing on the dance floor, swaying to a brass band, who were playing a jovial tune in the corner. Ball gowns and dinner jackets were all Sherlock could see, and his heart beat faster at the prospect of filtering through these peoples' disguises and finding out about their real life. John could see the twinkle in his eyes, and steered him towards an empty table, the both of them sitting down as they took in their surroundings.

Before either of them had the chance to say anything, a young woman around John's age, bounced over and plopped herself on a seat next to John. She was wearing a short red dress, and her blonde hair which hung in ringlets around her shoulders gave a perfect contrast to the blood red lipstick she was wearing. A rosy pink tinge accentuated her cheeks, and she giggled as she clutched at John's arm.

"Johnny, it's been _soooo _long since we last had a proper chat! Where oh where has the time gone?" she asked in a sing-song voice.

John grimaced, "Harry, this is Sherlock. You remember me talking about him?" he gestured over to his friend, who was studying John's sister intently.

Harriet Watson smiled cheerfully at the detective, "Of _course _I remember your little friend! My, my, isn't he handsome! You've scored, Johnny!" She let out a high-pitched giggle and rocked back in her seat, still clinging onto her brother. Said brother sighed and placed his head in his hands. Sherlock smiled sympathetically.

"Harriet, this isn't a way to treat your guests. Learn some manners, girl." a deep voice said from behind Sherlock. The detective could see John immediately tense, though he didn't raise his head, and Sherlock knew within seconds that George Watson was stood behind him.

Harry blushed a little, seeming to sober instantly. "Sorry, Dad." she muttered, then turned her gaze over to John. "Good luck, buddy," she muttered quiet enough for her brother and Sherlock to hear, yet not so loud that her father would hear. Soon she stalked away, seeking out another drink from the kitchen.

A large hand squeezed Sherlock's shoulder roughly, and he shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry 'bout that, son." The gruff voice said as a tall man, nearly as tall as Sherlock, stiffly sat on the seat next to him. He had short, grey hair, and exactly the same hazel coloured eyes that John had. Frown lines were prominent on his face, though his general being suggested a happy life. Sherlock gave a small smile to him.

"What's your name, then?" Mr Watson asked.

"Sherlock Holmes." the detective answered.

"Sherlock? What kind of a name is Sherlock?" the elder man scoffed.

_Oh. There's an opportunity here_, he thought to himself. A way to perhaps, _maybe_, fix the strife between father and son.

"Well, what kind of a name is Hamish?" Sherlock shot back. He could see John, out the corner of his eye, stiffen, but he kept his gaze firmly on the man in front of him.

George Watson, too, tensed. "You got a problem with that name? I'll have you know that my father was called that, and I don't take kindly to people insulting my family."

Sherlock held up his hands in a placating gesture, "No offence intended, sir. Just thought it was a strange name, is all."

Mr Watson grunted, "It's a traditional Scottish name, actually, and one I am proud to be associated with."

"Is that why you used it as John's middle name?"

John now had his hands clenched into fists in his hair, and Sherlock was aware that the doctor really wasn't happy as to where this was going. Mr Watson, too, frowned and looked across at Sherlock accusingly.

"You're a friend of John's?" he asked sceptically. Sherlock nodded.

"What, you're here instead of him?" Before the detective could answer, Mr Watson had already continued talking, "Hmph, it's not surprising, I suppose. I never really thought he'd have the guts to show himself here. Bloody typical, I tell you. Not that I'm complaining, mind you." _Ah, didn't quite go according to plan, then_.

A cold laugh sounded from across the table, "Can't even recognise your own son, huh Dad?" John asked icily, lifting his head from his hands and looking at his father.

Mr Watson hesitated for a split second, before regaining his composure. "You're looking well, John." he said stiffly.

"So are you. Happy anniversary." Sherlock looked from the two of them nervously.

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a chainsaw. Both John and Mr Watson were watching each other with guarded expressions, neither of them even attempting conversation. Finally, though, George spoke up.

"So you're not in the army anymore? What happened, got bored?" There was a slight trace of smugness in that last question, and Sherlock looked at Mr Watson in shock.

John shook his head incredulously, though he seemed unsurprised. "No, Dad, I got shot, as I'm sure you'll be happy to know."

Mr Watson tutted, "You never were good at stealth, and your reflexes were quite frankly appalling." he muttered.

"Hmm, you would've thought I'd learnt after failing to duck out of the way of one of your swings, wouldn't you?" John retorted.

Mr Watson said nothing, merely pursed his lips in annoyance and brushed the comment aside. "Still a doctor then? Managed to actually keep someone alive this time?"

The ex-soldier paled. "So you don't bother to learn the reason I'd been sent back home, yet you know the number of soldiers who died whilst I was treating them? Nice to know you have faith, _Dad_." John stood up from the table after shooting an apologetic look at Sherlock, before striding away to chat to some more guests.

"He was always sensitive as a child." Mr Watson muttered. _I don't blame him_, Sherlock thought. "Bloody useless."

The detective frowned, "Your son's a very good and experienced doctor, sir. He's patched me up plenty of times, I can assure you."

"I never said he was a bad doctor, he just doesn't seem to know what he's doing a lot of the time."

"Well, considering that the last time you saw him was when he was twenty, I'd say your opinion is very inaccurate."

The elder Watson glared at him, but said nothing. "What about you, then? What do you do?"

"I'm a consulting detective." Sherlock answered, waiting for the jab.

"_Consulting_? What the hell does that mean?"

Sherlock sighed, "It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." he smiled to himself, remembering the first cab ride conversation with John. The doctor's next words had then been–

"But the police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock looked at Mr Watson, letting the grin spread across his features. He could see John hovering in the background, nervous to see where this would go, yet also watching with interest.

"When you first sat down next to me, you squeezed my shoulder in a reassuring manner. At the time, your daughter Harriet was making fun of John, and so you thought it necessary to intervene, having seen this dozens of times."

"I wasn't making fun of him." Harriet said as she swayed over, John close at her elbows should she trip.

"Yes you were. Don't interrupt." Sherlock snapped. "Anyway, like I said, this meant that you had seen Harry approach people in a drunken state before, and it was safe to assume that you are ashamed of her, which is perfectly normal for a parent of an alcoholic, but what wasn't normal was the way you comforted _me _instead of John. Your son was the one being harassed by his sister, yet you still came to me, knowing that Harry had commented about me. This implied that you _knew _John was sat there, as you did not seem at all surprised when he spoke to you. That and the fact you freely spoke about him in front of him reveals that you also have a strained relationship with him.

"What are you imply–"

"I said don't interrupt. Despite the tense relationship, however, there are plenty of photos of John in the hallway back through the kitchen. I noticed in one of the photos that John was wearing his army uniform, and going by his age – which must have been about twenty – it suggested that he was perhaps weeks away from being deported. So even though you're not that fond of him, you can still bear to see his face every time you walk down that corridor. That means you're proud of him. You're proud that he's in the army, but also jealous of him."

"Jealous?" John asked, "How so?"

"Isn't it obvious?" John raised his eyebrows at him, "It's because he was unable to get into the army himself when he was younger. Going by the way you sat down stiffly earlier on, I'd say it was an injury to your hip that occurred during your childhood and never really recovered from."

"He fell out of a tree when we were teenagers," Ruth Watson confirmed, standing next to John and watching Sherlock deduce everything about her husband.

"Which proves my point." Sherlock said, shooting a look of annoyance at Mrs Watson, "John was a highly respected medic over in Afghanistan, but the more success he gained, the more envious you grew. You could have been all that – perhaps not a medic but certainly a good soldier – yet you've been hindered by one little injury. That one little injury has caused a rift between you and your son's relationship, and I suggest that you stop being so immature and be proud of your son for once. So, you see, you were right."

"_I _was right?" Mr Watson growled, fists clenched, "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock finished, standing and moving next to the doctor.

"Extraordinary." John breathed. Sherlock smirked.

Mr Watson also rose to his feet, still looking furious. Sherlock didn't pay any attention to this.

"The adult thing to do would be to apologise to your son." Sherlock commented offhandedly.

"Piss off." Mr Watson snarled, winding back his left arm. Having seen this, John quickly shoved Sherlock back and stood in his spot, raising his hands to stop his father, but he was too late and instead received the full force of George Watson's fury in the shape of a fist. The blow was powerful enough to send him staggering backwards, but luckily Sherlock was there to catch him and stop him from falling to the floor. The band stopped playing, having witnessed the scene, and the other guests gasped in shock.

Sherlock gently lowered John into a sitting position on the ground before crouching in front of him.

"Are you alright?" he asked, gently wiping the blood from the gash along John's right cheekbone.

"I'm fine." John muttered, and then looked up at his father. "What's that, three now?"

"Son..." Mr Watson murmured, staring at him in shock.

"Get out of my sight, George." Ruth Watson said firmly, crouching next to Sherlock and fussing over John.

"But Ruth–"

"Go away, Dad. Learn some manners." Harriet growled, mocking his earlier words as she emerged from the kitchen with an ice pack in her hand.

Reluctantly, Mr Watson trailed back into the house, and everyone focused their attention back onto John. Harry returned from the kitchen seconds later and Sherlock snatched the ice pack from her and held it to John's cheek, an apology gleaming in his eyes.

"Sherlock, it's fine. I'm fine. It's not your fault."

"John's right, sweetie," Mrs Watson said, "You would have been the one on the floor if John didn't get in the way. Plus all of those things you said were completely true; anyone could see it for themselves. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a stroppy child to sort out." She cupped John's other cheek and planted a kiss on his temple, before going into her house.

* * *

Five minutes later and John, Sherlock and Harriet were sat at one of the tables, the doctor still holding the ice pack to his cheek. A quiet cough caused them all to look up.

"John, I apologise for hitting you." George Watson said, looking into his son's eyes. Sherlock noticed Mrs. Watson stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her husband with firm eyes. He wondered if she had forced John's father to apologise.

"I realise also that it was inappropriate for me to try and even attempt to punch your friend, and I'm aware that if I had succeeded, I would no longer have a son to speak of." Mr Watson hesitated a little, before going on.

"But I will also tell you that I am truly sorry for any grievances I may have caused you during the past. Mr Holmes is right; I am very proud of you, and were it not for my silly little grudges, you would have been made aware of that fact a long time ago."

John smiled up at him, "Thanks, Dad." he mumbled. Mr Watson nodded, before ambling off again.

"Did you get that on recording? I don't think I've ever heard Dad apologise for anything before." Harry said with a grin, before she too walked off, though not before giving John a light hug.

Sherlock looked at his friend, "So, do you think today was a success?"

"Yes, I would have to say it was. Aside from the fact that I saved your hide again. I'm going to have to start making a tally, you know."

"I don't get into that much trouble..." Sherlock argued weakly.

"Hmm, let's think. There was the time with the Chinese postman, as well as the Dominican snail. Oh, and don't forget the gluten-free cannibal–"

"Yes, yes, you don't have to go on and on about it, Mr Show-Off." Sherlock said with a smirk.


	22. Qualities

_**Qualities: **__An inherent or distinguishing characteristic._

**A/N: Sorry for the delay x**

When someone looks at Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, their interest (or hatred, in some cases) is immediately directed to the former. Sherlock's icy eyes will pierce their innermost thoughts, deducing things that they had forgotten, or provoking unwanted memories and bringing them back up to the surface. He has the ability to take their feelings and break them apart, criticising their need for emotion, or using them to squeeze out the information he needs. He'll leave, the person watching after them in awe and wondering what on earth just happened, but also wondering if it would ever happen again.

When they skim their eyes over John Watson, however, they see nothing special. A plain and ordinary doctor hovering behind Sherlock, who works at the local clinic, enjoys a good cup of tea and worries about bills. They are not surprised by what they see. Why should they be? John Watson is far from extraordinary.

But Sherlock Holmes knows different. People see but they do not observe. He knows just how astonishing John is.

It was in the middle of October when Sherlock and John found themselves wandering through the Forest of Dean at 11 o'clock at night. The two of them had cuts and bruises covering their bodies from where they had had an unfortunate run-in with a suspect and his little gang. Despite having come off worse than their attackers, they were now in pursuit of them, stumbling over tree roots and avoiding fallen branches. In the distance, the faint beams of light coming from the torches that Detective Inspector Lestrade and his men were bearing could be seen, but Sherlock didn't give them a chance to catch up. He could hear John a few metres behind him, breathing heavily, which was understandable seeing as they'd been running for the past hour. About forty feet in front of them were the silhouettes of the three men, though Sherlock was beginning to have difficulty seeing; unsure whether he was chasing after them or just following shadows.

Within twenty minutes, the suspect and his friends were no longer in sight. Still, though, Sherlock and John kept up their speed, making an unspoken agreement not to stop until they find the men. Without warning, however, a stray branch blocking his path sent Sherlock sprawling to the floor, John whizzing past him. The doctor hesitated, having seen Sherlock fall, and quickly came to the detective's aid, offering a hand.

"No, don't worry about me, get after the suspect." Sherlock snapped as he pushed himself onto his knees, a sudden pain shooting through his ankle causing him to hiss and remain on the ground. John stayed where he was and placed his hands under Sherlock's arms, steadying himself to help the younger man to his feet. Sherlock wrenched his arms from John's grip.

"I'm fine, John. For God's sakes keep after them!"

"Sherlock, you're obviously not fine, so stop telling me what to do and let me help you up."

"We're going to lose them!"

"Greg will catch up; he's perfectly capable of subduing them." John pointed out as he ignored Sherlock's protests and pulled him to his feet. The detective wobbled and listed to the left, but John quickly wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, keeping him upright.

"Where is Greg, anyway?" John muttered, glancing behind them, only to see pitch black. Even the sound of police officers shouting could no longer be heard.

"He's probably taken a wrong turn somewhere." Sherlock answered, testing the strength in his foot.

"How can you take a wrong turn in this forest? There aren't any roads or paths." John said with a slight huff of laughter.

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock growled as flashes of pain struck in his ankle. He closed his eyes momentarily and subconsciously tightened his grip on the doctor.

"You alright?" John asked, "Do you think you can walk?"

"Of course I can." Sherlock snapped. Without giving a chance for John to comment, he began to limp forward, letting the doctor catch up and guide him over the rough terrain. Sherlock scanned the area around them in the hopes of finding a small settlement, where there would be service for his phone. However, the enveloping darkness prevented him from seeing more than two feet in front of him. John's torch was the only light source, illuminating the makeshift path they were taking and pointing out loose branches or revealing hidden tree roots.

Ten minutes later and the detective was getting impatient.

"You're a soldier, John. Can't you navigate our way to a village using the stars or something?" Sherlock mumbled, half distracted by the constant pain in his leg.

John frowned as they walked. "I could, but not in this case, Sherlock." he said.

"Why not?" the taller man demanded.

"Because I've no idea where the nearest village is, so I can't use the stars to help."

"Well, whose fault is that?" Sherlock huffed.

"Oh, stop complaining. The fresh air is good for you."

"The fresh air is _not _good for me, John. The bustling of idiotic people in a large city is good for me." Sherlock retorted.

"Let me remind you that it was you who dragged me to Gloucester and into the middle of a forest." John replied.

"Yes, but I wasn't counting on you getting us lost."

"_Me_? How on earth am I to blame?"

"If you hadn't stopped to help me up, we wouldn't be in this situation." Sherlock hissed. The doctor didn't reply, merely sighed in annoyance. John looked over at the detective, seeing faint traces of exhaustion cross the man's features.

"Do you need to stop? I'm sure your ankle's hurting."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm fine. The sooner we reach settlement, the better." He decided to ignore the fact that his words were slurring.

John smiled inwardly. "Well, I need to rest for a bit. Just ten minutes," he added at the annoyance that flickered across Sherlock's face. "and then we can keep going." It wasn't surprising for the doctor when he noticed that the younger man didn't object.

Soon John had found a small clearing in the forest, and he gently sat Sherlock down, making sure his ankle was set out in front of him. John bent down and examined it, prodding and poking around the bone, sometimes causing Sherlock to emit hisses of pain.

"It's not broken or dislocated." John said. "I think you've just twisted it. It'll be alright in a few hours, so long as you don't aggravate it anymore."

"How reassuring." Sherlock muttered as he lay down against the ground.

"Are you planning on sulking all evening?"

"I haven't decided yet." Sherlock said grumpily. John smiled and began to gather large braches and thick sticks, gathering them in a large pile near the detective. He then walked over to Sherlock and held out his hand expectantly. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, but still played innocent. John raised his eyebrows.

With an exasperated sigh, the detective rummaged in one of his pockets before drawing out his cigarette lighter and reluctantly held it out for John, who took it with a smug grin. Thirty seconds later and a warm fire was crackling and glowing, heat washing over the detective in a soothing manner.

"Better?" John asked. Sherlock grunted in reply. The doctor smirked and lay down next to Sherlock. The taller man looked across at him.

"You're not getting any food?"

John looked back at him, "You're deciding that tonight you're going to be hungry?"

"I meant for you."

"Well, I'm not hungry. We can both survive for one night without food."

"Fine. You sure you don't know where the nearest settlement is? You were the one with the map, after all." Sherlock asked.

"Yes, but _you _were the one who took the map off me and then lost it an hour later."

"I didn't lose it, I... misplaced it."

"Uh-huh. Sure." John smiled as he looked up at the stars. The sky tonight was clear and bright, so it was easy to see the star constellations.

"Sherlock, do you know what that constellation is over there?" John pointed upwards and slightly to the right. Sherlock followed his gaze, then frowned.

"I probably did, but I've deleted it now." he answered.

"It's _Ursa Major_. Alright, what about that one?"

Sherlock sighed, "Enlighten me." he drawled.

"_Delphinus_. How about–"

"I don't care, John." the detective interrupted.

"You never know, it might help with your next case."

"Well, if it does, then you will come in useful, won't you?"

"Are you saying that I'm not usually helpful?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"What? No, that's not what I was saying. I just meant that... you're just... what I'm saying is–" Sherlock stopped when John touched his arm.

"I'm kidding." he told the detective, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"Funny." Sherlock said sardonically, before sighing again.

John rolled his eyes, "What's the matter now?" he asked.

"Bored."

"Oh, for crying out loud. We've been here ten minutes."

"Yes, and the time has been dragging on for too long."

"Go to sleep, then, and stop pestering me."

"I'm not tired."

"Well, what did you have in mind?" John asked in frustration.

Sherlock shrugged, "Did you learn how to make a fire when you were in the army?" he asked.

John shook his head, "It was when I was with the Scouts, actually. Why do you ask?"

"Did you use a cigarette lighter then, as well?"

The ex-soldier chuckled, "No, I had to use softwood."

"What else did you learn?"

John thought for a second, before answering, "I learnt how to make a shelter, and then put up protective defences around it; which berries and mushrooms you can and can't eat; where to find the nearest source of water, and how to make a makeshift weapon."

"Can you teach me?"

The doctor looked across at him, frowning. "Are you serious?"

"There's nothing else to do around here."

"Well, erm, okay." John sat up and looked about him, "What – er – what did you want to know first?" he asked.

Sherlock sat up, too. "How do you build a fire?"

John frowned, "You could have just watched me earlier if you wanted to know that."

"I was busy."

"Busy doing what?"

"Thinking."

"Of course," John muttered, "Alright then. First, you need to make a pit in the ground, that's about 5 inches deep and 3 feet across."

"Fine. What do you use to dig?"

John smiled as he moved a few feet away from Sherlock and cleared away loose twigs and brush, "You use your hands. Why do you think mine are so dirty?" He held up his palms to show the detective.

Sherlock frowned as he crouched down next to John. "You want me to dig a hole in the ground using only my hands?" he asked sceptically.

John's smile widened, "Off you go." he said. Sherlock sighed but began clawing at the ground anyway. Within five minutes a pit had been made and the detective was attempting to scrape all the dirt from his hands.

"Next, you place large stones around it, to help contain the contents." John began collecting a few rocks and neatly putting them side by side. He looked up at Sherlock expectantly, who also picked up some rocks and placed them next to the others.

"Alright, now we gather firewood. Ideally, we need pine needle, dry leaves or even bird feathers. They'll help ignite the fire. Then, for kindling, we need long twigs or sticks. Make sure they're dry, or the fire will snuff out before it's even started. Good, now you put large branches and logs on top, they burn quickly so we need a lot."

Whilst Sherlock gathered the firewood, John quickly put the detective's cigarette lighter in his pocket, knowing that his friend would most likely cheat. When the fire was built, John smiled up at him.

"Great, so now we use this piece of softwood." He held out a piece of wood that was about 18 inches long and 2 inches wide. "You then carve a groove down the middle using something sharp." John offered the wood to Sherlock along with a pocket knife. The detective shot him a questioning look.

"I always carry it around with me if I can remember to." he explained with a shrug. Sherlock took the objects and carved a groove that was around one inch wide and 7 inches long.

"That's good, Sherlock, so then you use this stick and rub it back and forth to create bits of dust." Sherlock began quickly rubbing the pointed stick along the groove between his palms until a small pile of dust was beginning to form.

"Okay, now tip the board so that the dust collects at the bottom, and then rub the stick as fast as you can until the dust smoulders. Once you've done that you pick up the board and gently blow until you have a flame you can transfer to the firewood." John sat back on his heels and watched as the detective rubbed the stick frantically, practically glaring at the board as if to order it to catch fire. When nothing happened after two minutes, Sherlock began to get frustrated. John struggled to hide the smile that was forming as his friend shouted abuse at the offending wood.

"You're not putting enough pressure on it, Sherlock." The ex-soldier explained. Sherlock glared at him before retrying, pressing down on the wood as he did so. Thirty seconds later and a small flame appeared on the board. Sherlock let out a triumphant cry and managed to transfer it to the firewood. Soon enough, two fires lit up the small clearing, the sound of crackling wood being the only noise.

"Want to do something else?" John asked, grinning at the look of sheer exhaustion Sherlock was trying to fend off.

"No, s'fine." Sherlock muttered.

"Lie down, Sherlock, and get some sleep." John said patiently. The detective grumbled a little, but lay against the ground anyway. The doctor joined him, shedding his jacket and laying it over his body.

"Admit it Sherlock, you had fun tonight." John said quietly.

"I wouldn't call it fun, but it was certainly interesting." the detective answered drowsily.

John smiled, "Night, Sherlock." The younger man didn't reply.

* * *

The cawing of birds was the first thing to wake Sherlock up. He groaned and cracked one eyelid open. Sunlight streamed in through the trees, the bright rays complimenting the early morning smell. Sherlock opened both eyes and sat up, looking around him. Both the fires had gone out, leaving faint wisps of smoke rising from the embers.

Groggily, Sherlock stood up, stretching his limbs stiffly. When he straightened, he noticed something fall to the ground, and he looked down to see John's bomber jacket lying on the floor at his feet. He frowned, lifting the jacket, and then looked across at his friend.

John was still asleep, lying on his side with his arms wrapped tightly around him in an effort to preserve warmth, legs drawn up to his chest. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's compassion, and draped the doctor's jacket back over him.

When he looked around at his surroundings, he couldn't help but let his jaw drop open at what he saw.

"Oh, for God's sake!" he shouted, causing John to start and abruptly wake up.

"Wassamadder?" John slurred, looking around him blearily. When he saw Sherlock standing a few feet away and staring at something in the distance, he quickly scrambled to his feet and stood next to the detective.

About sixty feet in front of them, the tops of five houses could be seen. Smoke from three of the houses were trailing up towards the sky, suggesting that there were inhabitants. Sherlock turned on John.

"You _knew _they were there!" he accused, jabbing a finger at John's chest.

The doctor did his best to keep a straight face, though after a few moments, a grin spread across his features, soon becoming a laugh as Sherlock stalked off towards the houses in a sulk.


	23. Reunion

_**Reunion: **__An instance of two people coming together again after separation._

In the distance, Big Ben chimed four o'clock in the evening as John Watson limped out onto the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital, the constant _click... click... click _of the cane being the only other sound as the doctor moved forward.

It had been three years to the day. Three years since Sher– _he _jumped off this very roof and to his death. John hadn't forgotten. How could he? Everything about London brought back vivid memories of their time together. It was impossible to forget. Harry had tried to persuade him to move away, but as Mike Stamford had once said, he couldn't bear to be anywhere else.

He had remained at 221B. Mrs Hudson had lowered the rent slightly, and John had a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft was paying for some of it, but he wouldn't know, seeing as he had practically lost contact with the elder Holmes. Lestrade had continued to drag him out to the pub every now and then, and John had reluctantly obliged; Greg was still a good friend, and he had to admit that going to the pub was really the only social thing he did nowadays. He still had his job at the local clinic – Sarah had been adamant that he remained, and he had been grateful to her; work seemed to be the only thing that could distract him from the hollow pain burning inside.

John slowly limped towards the edge of St. Bart's and peered cautiously over the side. People were still going about their everyday lives, totally oblivious to the small ex-soldier standing 70 feet above them. John couldn't help but smirk a little. _He _had been right – all people were idiots, too consumed with themselves to see what was going on around them.

The doctor stiffly sat down on the edge of the hospital, letting out a sigh as his legs dangled over the drop. He laid his cane on the ground behind him before looking out across London again, taking in the sights and smells. In all those three years, he had never felt more alive. The danger of the 70ft drop below him caused his heart to thud loudly against his chest, his mind working out the likelihood of his survival were he to shuffle off the edge. But he wasn't suicidal. He was a soldier through and through, and soldiers never took the coward's way out. He'd find a way to cope. Perhaps.

Behind him, the tell-tale creak of the emergency door told John that someone had stepped out onto the roof, and moments later the _clack-clack _of expensive shoes sounded as the visitor took a few steps forward and stopped metres behind the doctor. John smiled, still looking ahead.

"I'm not going to kill myself, Mycroft, if that's what you're worried about." he said gently.

"I've no doubt about that." a deep, baritone voice answered.

John stiffened as the footsteps came nearer until someone was sat next to him, their legs also dangling over the rooftop edge. The doctor looked across to see Sherlock Holmes looking out over London, avoiding eye contact with him.

"You've lost weight." Sherlock said offhandedly. "A lot of it."

"Yeah, well, grieving tends to take the energy out of you. But what would you know? You're dead."

"Am I?" the detective murmured.

"You're supposed to be." John said, watching Sherlock for any signs that this was all part of his imagination.

"You think I'm not real?" Sherlock asked, still refusing to look at the ex-soldier.

"I don't know what to think." John muttered. "Why are you here?"

"To tell you I'm not dead?"

John scoffed, "Three years too late, Sherlock."

"Why do you think I'm here, then?"

The doctor sighed, "How would I know? The most likely situation is that this is all in my head. I've finally gone insane."

Sherlock grimaced, "You're not insane, John." he said softly.

John let out a hollow laugh, "Tell that to the dead detective I'm talking to. See you later, Sherlock." he said as he swung his legs back around onto the roof and stood up. He was seconds away from limping off when a firm, _solid_ hand gripped his arm, stopping him in his tracks. A feeling of dread washed over him as he turned to face Sherlock, stumbling backwards as he did so, the cane falling to the floor.

"No." John murmured as the detective also got to his feet. "It can't... you–you're dead."

Sherlock held his hands out in a placating gesture, "And yet..." he said with a smile.

_That grin_, John thought to himself as anger began to bubble inside him.

"How?" he asked weakly.

"I'd rather not answer that here. I'd much prefer it if we were–" He was cut off abruptly by a powerful fist connecting with his jaw. Shocked, the detective fell to the floor, but before he could get back up, John was pushing him against the rim of the roof, his fists bunched into Sherlock's Belstaff coat.

"_You'd _prefer it? _You'd prefer it_?" John seethed, eyes blazing. "What the hell do you think gives you the right to say that, after _three years_ of making me believe you were dead? You forced me to watch you fall to your death, and now you've suddenly decided to come back?"

"John–" Sherlock started, but the doctor interrupted him.

"Some people might think you cold, Sherlock Holmes, but this was _cruel_. Were you there at the funeral, watching people mourn over you? Did you see me visit your grave, and _beg _you to come home?"

"John, please. It's not like that–"

"Then what the hell is going on, Sherlock? Because I've been kept in the dark for far, _far_ too long, and it's about time someone tells me." John's voice was beginning to lose its strength, and he was now only weakly shaking the detective.

"You have no idea what I've been through, Sherlock." the doctor whispered, eyes downcast. "You don't know what my life has been like without your stupid experiments, or the constant pacing, or that _bloody _violin. You don't know..." Tears filled John's eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He was _not _going to cry in front of Sherlock.

The detective wriggled out of John's feeble grip on him, and he knelt opposite the doctor, taking his friend's face in his hands and forcing him to look up.

"John, you can't begin to imagine how sorry I am for doing this to you. I never meant to hurt you, but this was something that had to be done. Moriarty had a sniper on you, John. He had snipers on you, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, and he promised to shoot you if I didn't step off this roof. I had no choice, John, I had to do it."

"You could have told me," John croaked, the tears still glistening. "You're supposed to trust me. We could have worked something out."

Sherlock shook his head, "I do trust you John. With my life. But you had to be convinced that I was dead, otherwise the whole plan would have failed, and you would've had a bullet in your brain. I couldn't let that happen."

John stared at the detective in shock, still feeling a little angry, but his mind came up blank when he tried to think of something else to say to this. Instead, he said the one thing he'd continue to tell Sherlock's grave for three years.

"I missed you." he murmured, before tightly wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. The detective tensed in surprise, but a moment later John felt wiry arms close around his waist, hugging him back with just as much strength.

"I've missed you too John." Sherlock whispered as the doctor buried his head in the younger man's neck, silent sobs wracking his small body. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."

The two of them stayed like that for five more minutes, each unwilling to let the other go. When they finally pulled apart, John wiped his eyes in embarrassment.

"I still hate you." he muttered unconvincingly.

"Join the club." Sherlock answered as he stood up, offering a hand to John, who gladly took it.

"Hungry?" the detective asked.

"Starving." John replied, a small smile crossing his face. The first genuine smile for three years. Sherlock smiled back before leading the doctor back towards the emergency exit, the cane lying forgotten on the roof. Things weren't perfect – would probably never be perfect – but they were certainly mending.


	24. Sedative

_**Sedative: **__A drug which has a soothing, calming or tranquilising effect on the user._

"How long have–" Greg Lestrade began, but was cut off by John.

"Three days." The doctor answered stiffly.

"Blimey. And how much–"

"Nine hours."

Lestrade grimaced in sympathy, "How are you feeling?"

John shot daggers at him, "You're asking how I'm feeling now that I've been going for three days with only nine hours of sleep? How do you _think _I'm feeling?" he snapped.

"Sorry, stupid question really." Lestrade muttered.

John sighed, passing a hand wearily over his eyes, "No, it's not your fault, I didn't mean to snap. It's just... I'm barely able to stand." the doctor chuckled weakly.

The two of them were currently stood in Lestrade's office, watching Sherlock rattle off some deductions to a young sergeant, who was scribbling furiously on a small notebook. Even though they weren't working with the detective inspector, Greg had come out of his office upon seeing the pair, taken one look at John, and forced him to sit down before he fell down.

"At least the case is closed, though." Lestrade offered.

John snorted, "Yeah, but that's not going to stop him." he said, gesturing towards the detective.

As if knowing they were talking about him, Sherlock strode into Lestrade's office, shooting the inspector a disdainful look.

"We're leaving now, John." he said, before strolling back out without waiting for the doctor. John got wearily to his feet, stretching out his stiff limbs, then gave Greg an apologetic look before following Sherlock out the building.

The cab ride home, for John, was tedious. For the entire journey, Sherlock jabbered on and on about how the culprit had had the perfect opportunity to prevent herself from ever being caught, but one simple, silly, _stupid _mistake had caused her to slip up. John had tuned in and out of the conversation; every now and then he'd nod in agreement, or shake his head without really listening to what he was being told.

When they eventually made it back into the living room of 221B, the doctor had instantly made a bee-line for the couch, lying down upon it and emitting a great sigh of relief as his body _finally _had the chance to _sleep_. He was too tired to drag himself up another set of stairs, so he gladly settled for spending the night on the sofa, damning the consequences that would probably appear in the form of a stiff neck. Besides, it was likely that Sherlock wasn't yet done with the case, despite it being closed; the detective had a knack for waking him in the middle of the night, hours after catching their culprit, just to make him come downstairs so that the younger man could expand on unimportant details that could have waited until the morning. Sleeping on the sofa was definitely the better idea.

Barely two minutes had passed before Sherlock was calling him.

"John." the detective said from his armchair.

"Sherlock." the doctor muttered, forcing his eyes open and looking over at his flatmate.

"I forgot to tell you how I knew that Mrs. Colman had found out about her husband's affair..."

"Sherlock..."

"... It's quite simple really: When she received those red roses on Valentine's Day, that was her first clue. I'm sure you'll want to know what that had to do with anything..."

"I really don't."

"... but it's simply because she knew Mandy – Mr. Colman's mistress – loved roses, whereas _she _preferred lilies, a fact her husband should have known. Mandy was a close friend of Mrs. Colman's, so naturally she would have known what her friend's favourite flower was..."

"Sherlock, please..."

"... Ergo, when she saw those roses left for her, she knew that her husband had mixed up his facts, leading her to the conclusion that Mr. Colman was seeing someone else."

John sighed, eyes closed, "That's great Sherlock." he said.

Sherlock frowned, "Not really. Mr. Colman's mistake got him killed."

The doctor was no longer listening, "Mmm-hmm. Fantastic."

The detective shot him a look of annoyance, before getting up and heading towards the kitchen. It was only when he stumbled and crashed into a pile of books on the floor, clutching onto John's armchair for support, that the doctor opened his eyes again.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Fine." Sherlock answered.

John eyed him suspiciously, "When was the last time you slept? Or ate, for that matter?"

"Which question do you want me to answer?"

"Slept?"

"Three days."

John rolled his eyes, "And ate?"

"Three days."

"...God's sake, Sherlock. Sit down." Reluctantly, John got up from the couch and moved over to Sherlock, leading him back to his chair. The detective protested and made to get back up, but a look from John soon silenced him.

"How many times do I have to remind you to eat, drink and sleep? I swear, sometimes it's like looking after a child."

"Well, if I were a child you wouldn't have done a very good job. I'd be dead by now."

"One day my wish will come true." John muttered as he went into the kitchen.

"What was that?" Sherlock called.

"I, er... I said your lips will turn blue." the doctor paused, his arm outstretched as he reached for the cupboard. _Lips will turn blue? _he thought sceptically, _where the hell did that come from?_

Sherlock, also, seemed unconvinced, "... What?"

_Just go along with it_, his subconscious said. John nodded dumbly, "You heard me. It's a – er – a rare disease that can occur if your body has been mistreated for too long. It's called... Colman's disease." _That's right, use the name of our murderer._

The detective frowned, "I've never heard of it... Are you sure that's what it's called?"

John nodded again, "Definitely. You may not have heard of it because it's only just been discovered. It's in one of my medical books that you're so keen on insulting." _Please buy it, please buy it, please buy it_.

"Which one?" Sherlock asked, looking down at the mess of books on the floor.

"Er... it's not there anymore. I gave it to charity." _Leave it alone, Sherlock. Drop the subject._

Someone up there must like him, for he had never felt more relief than when Sherlock shrugged and said, "Alright," before yawning.

_Huh. He really must be tired_, the doctor mused.

"Why don't you go to bed? We can go over the details of the case in the morning."

The younger man shook his head, "I'm not tired."

John sighed, "Yes, you are Sherlock. There are dark circles under your eyes and you can barely walk straight."

Sherlock remained adamant, "It's fine John, I haven't finished thinking. I'll sleep when I feel tired."

"You _are _tired; you're just refusing to acknowledge it. Stop being so stubborn and go to bed."

"I said it's fine. I don't need to sleep. My body is working perfectly well."

_Time for Plan B, then_. John shrugged at the detective, as if allowing defeat. "At least have a cup of tea, though." he said.

Sherlock sighed, "Fine."

Grinning on the inside, John prepared the two hot drinks, but not before nipping into the bathroom and retrieving a small, glass bottle. When he returned to the kitchen, he discreetly poured the contents of the bottle into one of the cups, then went back into the living room to hand the drink to Sherlock. Once he'd settled down in his armchair opposite the detective with his own tea, he smiled up at his flatmate. Sherlock frowned.

"What?" he asked.

John shook his head, "Nothing, nothing..."

Silence stretched on through the flat as the two men sipped their tea. Sherlock finished his before John, and carelessly put the cup on the ground next to his chair. John was still watching him.

"Whazza mat–" Sherlock stopped midsentence, realising that his words had slurred. His brows crossed, before realisation suddenly hit him like a slap in the face.

"You-you've drugged me." the detective accused, struggling to get up from the chair. He swayed unsteadily on his feet, and John quickly stepped forward to steady him.

"It's just a mild sedative," John reassured. "It'll wear off by tomorrow."

Sherlock blinked slowly, "W-why?"

John sighed, "You need to sleep, Sherlock, and this was the only way."

"... Don't need to sleep." Sherlock muttered, wobbling again. John ignored him and began to gently guide the taller man towards his bedroom, but the detective firmly stayed where he was.

"G-give me the... the antidote." he slurred.

"There aren't antidotes for sedatives. Come on, the sooner you're asleep, the better you'll feel."

"N-no." Sherlock said stubbornly.

"Sherlock, if you don't comply, then I will fetch Mrs. Hudson and we will drag you to your room. And I'm sure she'd be delighted to take a few photos."

"You... you're blackmailing m-me?"

"I'm afraid so. Now stop stalling and come with me."

The detective, realising he didn't really have a say in the matter, grudgingly staggered forward with the aid of John, who constantly held him upright.

When they reached Sherlock's room, the two of them slowly made their way towards the large bed, before John gently deposited the muttering detective on it. Without needing to be told, Sherlock lay down against the pillows and closed his eyes, his breathing slowing within seconds. John smiled to himself and took off his friend's shoes and blazer, before going back into the living room and settling into his armchair with his lukewarm tea. In his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate as a text came through. Sighing in exasperation, he pulled it out and read the message.

_You do realise what you've done, don't you? He's never going to let this go. I'd leave while you have the chance. And Colman's disease? – MH_

John rolled his eyes, then shot back a reply.

_I regret nothing – JW_

Seconds later, another vibration alerted him.

_Good luck – MH_

The doctor smiled then glanced up at the small camera hidden in the corner ceiling, the only one that Sherlock hadn't yet found. John raised his mug in a toasting gesture, before bringing it back to his lips and taking a sip, planning on ways to evade Sherlock's company until the detective finally gave up. _If _he gave up.


	25. Trust

_**Trust: **__Firm reliance on the integrity, ability or character of a person._

John Watson yawned as he trudged down the stairs and padded through the living room and into the kitchen of 221B, trying to make as little noise as possible. Switching on the kettle, he sat down at the long table and put his head in his hands, yawning again as he tried to wake himself up. For once, he had gotten up before Sherlock, and he had no intention of waking the detective.

Once his fresh cup of tea had been made, John returned to the kitchen table, sipping his drink contentedly and relishing the peacefulness of the flat. His relief was short lived.

"I did not have you down as an early riser, Doctor." a confident voice said from the living room as the sound of expensive heels across the kitchen tiles echoed around the flat.

John wasn't surprised to see Mycroft stood on the other side of the table, watching him with an amused smirk.

"Mmm. Well, it's always reassuring to know that you haven't memorised my morning schedule, Mycroft. Tea?"

The government official shook his head as John got up to switch the kettle on and clean his mug at the sink. "So if you weren't expecting to see me," he continued, "did you want to speak with Sherlock?"

Mycroft shrugged, "Either one of you would be fine, though I had a sneaking suspicion you'd be up." he said.

John frowned, "You thought I'd be up at..." he glanced at the clock, "... 5 o'clock in the morning?"

"Naturally." Mycroft said elusively.

"Naturally? And how did you come to that conclusion?" The doctor asked, leaning against the counter.

The elder Holmes gave John a condescending look, before looking down at his umbrella, twiddling the handle between his fingers. "It has been... seventeen days since you reunited with my brother. You must have known there would be... consequences."

"Consequences?" John echoed, "I'd be happy to endure nightmares for the rest of my life if it meant Sherlock stays alive."

Mycroft studied him, "When he was gone, you suffered from night terrors every night for three years. Even though he's back, they are still recurring, if not worse. They're most probably reminding you of what _could _have happened, and twisting the outcome to be ten times more horrific. Are you telling me that you're happy to put up with that?"

"You got all that from my being up at 5 o'clock in the morning?" John asked.

Mycroft ignored him. "You're loyalty to Sherlock astounds me, John."

"Well, what did you expect me to do when he returned, Mycroft? Throw him out? Tell him I never wanted to see him again? Because then I would be lying. Sherlock saved my life, and although I didn't know it at the time, I know it now and I'm not going to punish him for that."

"You're willing to trust him with what he says?" Mycroft asked.

"He wouldn't lie to me." John said confidently, "Not after vanishing for three years. I trust him to treat me with respect and tell the truth, which I know he did." he finished as he prepared another cup of tea.

Mycroft frowned slightly, watching him with mild curiosity, "I said no to tea, John." he said.

"I know."

"Good morning, Mycroft. To what do we owe this unexpected and unpleasant surprise?"

Sherlock Holmes strolled into the kitchen wearing a plain suit with his magenta robe slung over it. He didn't even look at his brother as he stood next to John, accepting the tea.

"I am in need of your assistance, dear brother. The situation is not a light one, and – although it pains me to say this – your help would be most appreciated." Mycroft said with a forced smile.

John could practically feel the smugness radiating from the consulting detective next to him.

"And what is it that you so desperately need me to do?" he asked, battling to hide a smirk.

Mycroft sighed, "Tonight, a formal dinner is being held at 10 Downing Street. The guest of honour is the President of Bolivia."

John raised his eyebrows.

The government official paused, considering his words. "I believe there is going to be an assassination attempt on the President's life later this evening. The assassin is known as the 'Knife-Wielder–"

"Imaginative." Sherlock grunted.

"Quite. Anyhow, she is–"

"She?" John asked.

Mycroft pursed his lips in annoyance. "Yes, _she_. The woman is responsible for the deaths of over twenty heads of state and monarchs, and it is likely that she will strike again tonight."

"So why do you need me?" Sherlock asked, "Pose as a security guard?"

"No, I have plenty of those already. What I require you to do is attend the dinner and find the Knife-Wielder before it is too late. She has been known to disguise herself as someone who others wouldn't look twice at, for example a waiter or a policeman."

"But can't you find her?" John asked.

Mycroft looked at him scornfully again. "I am perfectly capable of finding her, but I am not willing to take any risks tonight. Three pairs of eyes are better than one."

"What nationality is this woman?" John asked.

"British, as far as we know. You can guess what the consequences of the President's death would be upon England."

"Mmm. Not good at all." Sherlock muttered.

"I'm glad you agree. A car will be here to pick you up at four o'clock this afternoon. Make sure you dress formally. Good day." Without allowing time for a response, Mycroft nodded in their direction before heading out the door.

"Three pairs of eyes?" John murmured, absentmindedly listening to the sound of Mycroft's footsteps on the stairs.

"Obviously," Sherlock grunted as he made his way into the living room, scooping up the violin before standing in front of the window. "He meant you as well."

"Me? I'm not going to be able to spot an assassin."

Sherlock sighed in frustration, "No, but you are a soldier. It would be better if you were there to restrain her. No doubt she won't go down without a fight."

"Oh." John said, then groaned as a whiny screeching sound filled the room. "Sherlock–" he began, but the screeching from the detective's violin got louder and soon the doctor gave up, going upstairs to get dressed.

When he was back in the living room, Sherlock had put the violin down and was sitting in his chair, studying the content on the screen of John's laptop.

"What are you looking for?" he asked as he stood behind the detective, peering down at the web page.

"Information on the Knife-Wielder." Sherlock grunted.

"Anything interesting?"

The younger man looked up at him, "Everything's _interesting_, John. I'm sure you meant _useful_."

John sighed, "Fine, anything useful?"

"No. This woman is practically invisible. CCTV can't identify her, and when people are questioned, they simply say that she didn't seem important and they hadn't noticed her. Idiots." he huffed.

John smiled and patted Sherlock on the shoulder as he went into the kitchen to prepare another cup of tea. _I guess all we have to do now is wait_, he thought to himself.

* * *

Four o'clock arrived and Sherlock and John were stood outside, both wearing black suits with black ties and looking bored. Not a second later and one of Mycroft's sleek cars pulled up in front of them, and the two quickly got in. Seven minutes after saw John looking up at the glossy door of 10 Downing Street, wondering how insane his life could get. Sherlock was not far behind him, and soon one of the policemen based next to the house were directing them inside and towards the dining room.

The room itself was huge. The wooden walls gave a cosy feel to it, and the tall, cream ceiling screamed _expensive _to the army doctor. Long tables were arranged in a 'U' shape, covered in pristine white tablecloths, with stainless cutlery based at each chair and magnificent bouquets of flowers decorating the room. At the head of the table, the Prime Minister and the President of Bolivia were having an animated discussion, whilst Mycroft sat on the other side of the Minister, half-listening to the conversation and also scanning his eyes across the room. When he noticed Sherlock and John enter, he gave a small nod, before returning to surveying his surroundings.

"This is a nice little get together, isn't it?" Detective Inspector Lestrade sidled up to John and stood on his left, watching the people in front of him. John smiled whilst Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I should have known you'd be here, Lestrade," Sherlock scowled, as he studied each and every person in the room. "Mycroft has definitely pulled out the big guns."

Greg sighed in exasperation, "I haven't even been here thirty seconds and you're already insulting my job."

"Must be a record." John grinned. The three of them moved towards the corner of the room, standing in the shadows and staying out of the way of VIP guests.

"Mmm. Oh, excuse me, gentlemen, but Mycroft is beckoning me over. I guess I'm about to receive my orders, huh?" With a cheery grin, Lestrade made his way over to the elder Holmes and crouched next to him, listening to the whispered instructions.

"Do you really still have nightmares?" Sherlock asked quietly, still looking out over the room.

John frowned, "Why are you bringing this up now?"

The detective shrugged, "Why shouldn't I?"

"You always have to answer my questions with a question, don't you?"

"Do I?"

"Yes." John chuckled, watching Greg be introduced to the Prime Minister. He smiled slightly at how uncomfortable the inspector looked.

"How long have you had them?"

John sighed. "Three years and seventeen days." he muttered.

"How bad?"

"Why do you want to know?" John asked.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Because I didn't realise how much you were suffering." he said.

"I'm not suffering. Not anymore, anyway. You're here now, remember?" He nudged Sherlock's side.

"What was it like?" the detective questioned, his eyes scanning the room as he spoke. "During those three years?"

"Awful." John answered truthfully, knowing that he wouldn't succeed by lying. "I didn't know what to do with myself most of the time."

"Did you ever consider it?"

John knew what he was asking, and he sighed again. "Once." he said, and Sherlock glanced at him sharply. "A few days after your funeral. I came home from work and saw my gun lying on the coffee table. I even went so far as to pick it up and let it hover near my head. But then common sense got the better of me, and I couldn't bear to leave Mrs. Hudson alone. So I locked it away in my dresser table, and forgot about it for three years."

Sherlock's focus returned back to the room. "I'm glad you didn't do it." he muttered.

"Me too." John replied.

"Did the journalists ever bother you?"

John frowned at the sudden interest in the media Sherlock was showing. "Yes." he answered.

"A lot?" Sherlock prompted.

"Yes, a lot... Have you found our assassin?"

Sherlock gazed down at him as if to say, _I know what you're doing,_ but answered his question all the same.

"Not quite yet, but I have my suspicions."

"Such as?"

"Well, there aren't too many women in the room, so–"

"How do you know she isn't dressed as a man?" John interrupted.

Sherlock smiled, "Good, John, but she wouldn't do that. She'd want people to remember the _woman _who hung back in the shadows and then made a vicious kill, not the man who actually turned out to be a woman."

"Right. What weapon does she use?"

Sherlock frowned, "I would've thought _that_ would be obvious at the very least. She's called the Knife-Wielder for a reason, John."

"Yes, I know that Sherlock, but I thought it'd be a little noticeable if she strides up to the President and stabs him in the chest with a machete." John lowered his voice slightly as a couple walked past and gave him a horrified look. He smiled at them.

The detective shook his head. "No, somehow she gets her target alone, then slits their throat. She's gone before anyone even notices the missing pair. Not sure exactly what weapon she uses."

John nodded, though he didn't seem too convinced. How was this woman going to snatch the President when Mycroft and Sherlock were watching his every move? Looking over to the head of the table, his eyes snagged on Mycroft, who was discreetly gesturing to his younger brother. Sherlock nodded at John before going over to the other side of the room.

"Found her?" the detective asked, crouching down where Lestrade had been moments before.

Mycroft nodded, turning away from the Prime Minister and looking down at Sherlock. "Can you see those two police officers, stood near the door?"

Sherlock peered over the top of the table and noticed two women dressed in uniform based either side of the main door.

"Which one?" Sherlock asked.

"The one closest to Doctor Watson. Get him out of the way whilst I gather some men."

Sherlock could see the woman stood dangerously close to John. Underneath her officer's hat, streaks of blonde could be seen, and even from over here the detective could see sharp green eyes. Before he went however, he grasped Mycroft's arms.

"Is she supposed to be one of Lestrade's? Perhaps he can calmly take her aside."

The government official shook his head, "I asked the Inspector, but he said he didn't know who she was."

"Does he know about the situation?"

"No. As far as he's aware, he's just standing in as a bodyguard."

"Good. You said you didn't want a scene?"

"It would be preferable, yes." Mycroft confirmed.

"I'm afraid that's not going to happen, dear brother." Sherlock ignored his brother's protests and quickly stood up, always keeping his eyes on the woman near John as he made his way over to one of the walls. Mounted on the wood was a small fire alarm, and Sherlock wasted no time in elbowing the glass and sliding away as blaring sirens deafened the people in the room. All the guests clamped their hands over their ears, and Mycroft soon took advantage of the situation, rising to his feet and directing everybody outside via the French windows. The elder Holmes instructed Lestrade to take the Prime Minister and the President of Bolivia away quickly. John hadn't budged from his spot, but he was watching the scene with cautious eyes and one hand hovering near his pocket. Their assassin hadn't moved either, but it was evident she was still looking for a way to get out without the three security guards – who were now steadily making their way over – reaching her.

Sherlock locked eyes with John, and quickly began mouthing. "_Get out of the way!_"

John frowned at him.

"_Get out of the way! Move!_"

"_What_?" John mouthed back.

"_Move!_"

The doctor frowned again, but he soon noticed the three security guards coming closer, and it didn't take him long to piece together the chilling notion that the assassin was stood behind him.

As if having read his thoughts, a strong, feminine arm wound around his neck, whilst the cool feeling of a long blade pressed against his throat.

"Move, and I won't hesitate to cut you open." a quiet voice hissed in his ear, digging the blade into his neck a little more, causing John to crane his head back against her shoulder.

"There's no point in taking him hostage, you won't be able to get away." Sherlock was somehow stood in front of them, having snaked past the three guards, who were now aiming guns at the woman. The detective appeared calm, but John had known him long enough so much so that he noticed the flicker of panic in Sherlock's eyes.

The assassin laughed, "And you're willing to gamble with the doctor's life?" At the mention of John, the killer jerked her arm a little, pressing the blade further into his neck. John raised his head a little more in an attempt to lessen the pressure, but the woman only shifted, readjusting her grip on him.

The ex-soldier sighed in frustration.

"You don't seem very afraid." The assassin taunted, nudging him to let him know who she was addressing.

John stopped himself from saying _you don't seem very frightening_, for he could see Mycroft at the back of the room, talking furiously on his phone, and John guessed that now wasn't the time for a joke.

"I'm not afraid because I'm used to it, Miss...?" he said instead.

"Ivy."

"That your real name?"

"Nope. You said you were used to it? Why?"

_Are we really having this conversation now_? "You apparently know who I am, you tell me."

"You're Sherlock Holmes's sidekick." she said.

John sighed again, "I'd prefer companion, or colleague." he grumbled. Sherlock smirked.

"Whatever." Ivy said. "Now then, this is what I'm going to do. I am going to stroll out of Downing Street with Doctor Watson, and none of you are going to follow me, otherwise this will be the last time you see your little soldier."

"Was it really necessary to use the word 'little' in that sentence?" John huffed.

"Stop talking! Anyway, do you all understand?"

Mycroft had finished his phone conversation and was stood next to Sherlock.

"You realise you're not going to be able to leave the country?" he said sternly.

"I'm sure I'll think of something." she said, "After all, I've already done it twenty-three times. Why should this time be any different?"

Mycroft clearly didn't agree, though he didn't say anything.

"That's it?" Sherlock stepped forward. Ivy stepped back, wrenching John with her. "You've failed in your attempt to kill your target, and now you're just going to leave?"

The assassin shrugged, "There'll be other opportunities. Plus, there are other people on my list. I'm not going to waste time in prison just because I strived after one man."

"I doubt there will be another opportunity." Sherlock muttered.

"We'll find out, won't we?" Ivy smiled, "Anyway, must dash. Say goodbye, Johnny." she whispered the last bit. John shivered.

Not giving time for an answer, Ivy began shuffling backwards, out the door. The three security guards began to tense, looking from the assassin to Mycroft and waiting for an order, but the elder Holmes held up his hands.

Four minutes later and Ivy was wrenching John out onto the street, quickly guiding him forward and down an alleyway. By now, a steady trickle of blood was making its way down the doctor's neck due to Ivy's jerking and shifting, but he ignored it.

"So," John huffed, "Been busy, lately?" _What kind of a question was that?_

Ivy must have been thinking the same thing, "You're trying to be funny?"

"It's either funny or angry." John muttered.

"What, so if you're angry, you'll manage to overpower me? Am I supposed to be scared?"

"No, if I were angry, I'd end up _trying _to overpower you, and you'll end up killing me. Not a route I'd like to go down."

"You talk an awful lot, don't you?"

John smiled, "That's what everyone says. It's probably a defence mechanism, or something."

"Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to shut you up. I've got as far as I can with you anyway, so now you're just baggage."

"I'm only sorry to say we have to part like this." John said as Ivy stopped, the blade still digging into his throat.

"Hmm. But the good news is, you get to choose how you die. I can either slit your throat, or I can pull your gun out from your pocket and put a bullet through you."

"Huh. Tough decision. I suppose I'll take the gun. The blood from the knife would ruin my suit."

"Good choice. You're looking very handsome, you know."

"I'm touched," John said dryly. Ivy was no longer talking, and he could imagine her looking down at his pockets and reaching for his gun. He took that opportunity to strike.

He swiftly grabbed at the arm holding the knife and wrenched it up and away from his throat, unfortunately causing the blade to slice his cheek in the process, but he allowed no time to worry about that.

Recovering remarkably quickly however, Ivy regained her balance and freed her arm from John's grasp. Knowing that fighting a soldier would be futile, the woman turned to run, but John wasn't letting her go that easily. Managing to grab her arm again, he spun her back around and threw a punch at her jaw. She anticipated it happening, however, and ducked. At the same time, she brought the long knife forward and plunged it into the thigh of John's bad leg.

Letting out a cry of pain, the doctor collapsed to the floor, his head colliding with the slick cobblestones. Footsteps running away from him could be heard, and John pulled together the rest of his strength, twisting onto his stomach and swiftly pulling out his gun. Seeing the small figure run down the alley, he fired one shot and let out a sigh of relief when he heard an answering cry. The shot probably wasn't fatal – he'd been aiming for the leg, after all – but it would at least slow her down.

He was quickly left in silence, aside from his own harsh breathing. Pain was ricocheting up and down his leg, but he pushed it aside. He managed to drag himself upwards and slouch against the wall, panting from the effort, but he couldn't find the energy to do anything else.

Before he had a chance to think through his next moves, however, pounding footsteps echoed around the alleyway, and John turned his head to see Sherlock sprinting towards him.

"John!" he boomed. When he reached the doctor, John made to reassure him, but the detective cut him off.

"Which way did she go?" he asked quickly. The ex-soldier stared at him in shock, before answering him, albeit a little sulkily.

"Down there." he pointed to where he'd last seen the assassin, and Sherlock shot him a grateful look before shooting off after her.

John closed his eyes as the pain increased slightly, and when he opened them a few minutes later a hand was extended in front of him. He looked up to see Mycroft stood above him, studying him intently.

Surprised, but also grateful, John took the offered hand and slowly levered himself up. Mycroft kept a firm grasp on his arm as the doctor leant against the wall, and John smiled wearily at him.

"Thanks," he gasped, "I think I can take it from here. Getting up was the only thing I couldn't do."

Mycroft smiled slightly, "Of course. I'll phone for an ambulance."

"No, no it's alright. I don't need a hospital. S'not that bad."

The elder Holmes raised his eyebrows, but didn't comment. Instead, he nodded once at John, before striding quickly after Sherlock.

Alone once more, John gently began to inch along the wall, hopping every now and then in order to keep the pain at its minimum. Soon enough he had made it out of the alleyway, and was standing in Downing Street. Outside number 10, all the guests were milling about, being asked questions by police officers and some even being led to ambulances due to the shock of seeing an assassin standing in the Prime Minister's home. John rolled his eyes as he made his way along the path, not being noticed by anyone. Near the road, he could see Lestrade stood close to the Prime Minister and the President of Bolivia, having taken it upon himself to protect the two. John did his best to be as small as possible, desperately hoping no one would see him and force him into an ambulance.

"Owowowowow." John muttered as he hopped past Lestrade and onto the main street. 221B was about a ten minute's walk from here, so he'd probably get there in fifteen. He really didn't want to spend any more time here waiting for a cab to come by. As soon as he was home he could patch himself up.

"The bullet went straight through her right knee. Good shot." a deep, baritone voice said as a long arm wound its way around John's waist, taking the pressure off the doctor's leg.

"Mmph. Thanks." John grunted whilst he gripped Sherlock's shoulders. "Glad I could be of some use."

"Of course you were of use, I knew I could count on you to nab her."

"Nab her?" John echoed, "You've never used that expression before."

"Must be getting it from you, then." Sherlock said. "Do you want me to take you to hospital?" he asked.

"No, it's fine. I can take care of myself at home."

"Does it hurt?"

"Of course it hurts, Sherlock." John sighed, "Though I'd take the wounded leg to a slit throat any day."

"I'm not surprised. You were very calm about the whole thing, I have to say." the detective said as they continued to limp down the street.

"Yeah, well I knew you and Mycroft would get me out of it."

Sherlock stopped, causing John to stumble a little. "We didn't, though. You got yourself out."

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock. I trusted you to keep me safe, and mostof the time you do just that."

"Do you? Do you trust me?"

"Yes, of course I trust you. What's brought this on?" John asked.

"What Mycroft said this morning, about your night terrors..."

"Sherlock." John said firmly, looking into those icy eyes. "Just because I sleep badly doesn't mean I'm going to desert you. None of that is your fault – well, apart from the whole jumping off a roof part – and I don't want you to think I blame you, okay? Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. Thank you." Squeezing John's side reassuringly, the two of them carried on down the street, taking their time and enjoying each other's company.


	26. Useless

_**Useless: **__Not fulfilling or not expected to achieve the intended purpose or having no skills that can be seen as helpful._

It had to be said that John was jealous of Irene Adler. Not in _that _way, of course, but in the sense that Sherlock seemed to be completely infatuated with her.

He wouldn't call it love, maybe admiration or respect. Whenever she decided to drop by, the detective would give her his undivided attention for as long as she stayed, only answering John when he absolutely had to, and if that he'd reluctantly give monosyllabic responses. Even when The Woman wasn't here, Sherlock would still sometimes ignore the doctor, or only half-listen to him, but he'd still notice things John did and would often see to it that he came wherever the detective went.

That was why John was jealous, and it was also why he didn't like Adler. It was plain for all to see that she was manipulating Sherlock, but every time John tried to make him aware of this fact the younger man would brush the comment off with a, "No one can manipulate me, John."

He hadn't been very surprised when he found out that Adler wasn't actually dead; nothing that woman did anymore would come as a shock. Though he had to admit it had been amusing when Mycroft came by and saw her sat on the sofa, watching TV and sipping tea. The government official had even gone so far as to drop his umbrella. It had been extremely hard not to laugh, the smirks from Sherlock and John were the only moves that gave them away. Still, that didn't change his opinion of The Woman one bit.

Which is why, on a Monday evening in the middle of November, having just finished work and laden with shopping bags, John marched up the front steps of 221B – ignoring his numb fingers due to the pouring rain and icy temperatures – and rushed inside the hallway, leaning gratefully against the cold door and putting down the shopping for a few moments, thinking the day couldn't get any worse. He was soaked to the skin, and he wanted nothing more than to trudge upstairs and take a hot shower.

He took a few steps forward, heading towards the stairs, but paused when he heard voices coming from his flat. Sherlock's deep, baritone voice was talking to someone else with a soft, sweet, _sickly_ tone. John sighed as he slowly walked up the steps, pausing as he got to the doorway, peering into the living room.

Sherlock was sat in his chair, casually plucking at the strings of his violin yet his eyes never left Irene Adler's face as she spoke in a quiet and silky voice, leaning forward and resting her hands on Sherlock's knees. It was obvious she wanted something, and she was clearly succeeding.

John shook his head and walked past them and through to the kitchen, dumping the shopping on the table. Sherlock and Irene didn't say a word when he entered, though the detective's eyes momentarily flickered to him, before focusing back onto The Woman.

"...I'll be able to distract him – I know what he likes – and you will go around the back of the house and retrieve it. But–"

"Retrieve what?" John asked as he shed his jacket and flicked the kettle on, despite knowing full well he'd be ignored.

" –he may have... friends... with him, so we'll need to be careful. I'd suggest taking a gun, just in case. If we leave now we can make it to his house just before he gets there himself. What do you say?" Adler asked, smiling slightly and batting her eyelids.

Sherlock studied her intently, "What's the catch?"

"Catch? There is no catch."

"There's always a catch. Do you honestly expect me to believe that you came here purely because you needed help? No, there's something else. What is it?"

Adler glared firmly at him, before giving in with a sigh, "I need a place to stay." she said.

John's heart sank.

"I've been told by contacts that Jim's men are still hunting me down, despite the fact that he's dead."

"That's impossible, Moriarty's web has been destroyed. There's no one left, I've ensured that." Sherlock said in a low voice.

"Well then you missed a spot." Adler countered, "They've been after me for three months, though I've managed to escape them for now. All I need is a few days, and then I'll be gone."

The detective said nothing for a few moments, then answered in a cold tone, "Fine. We'll leave now, then." He stood up and moved towards the door, sliding on his coat as he did so. "John, I need you to go down to Bart's and find Molly. She's got a bag of fingernails waiting for me, and they need to be picked up immediately." he called.

John grimaced, "Don't you want me to come with you?" he asked.

"No it's fine, I've got Irene."

_Oh, it's _Irene_ now?_ John thought to himself. "Can't I see Molly another time? It's pouring down with rain out there and I'm already drenched. Or a better idea, _you _could get your fingernails yourself."

"Can't John, I've got a case. Haven't you been listening? Don't wait up." With that, Sherlock swirled out of the flat, Adler close on his heels. The sound of the front door closing echoed through the flat, and the doctor cursed as he scooped up his soaked jacket, putting it on with an exasperated sigh. He was back on the street a few seconds later, hunching up his shoulders in a lame attempt to protect himself from the torrential rain, but to no avail. The rain gave no mercy, and ensured that he would have a cold by the end of the day. The cold temperatures seeped through his clothing as he stood out on the pavement, waiting for a cab to drive by.

Two minutes had passed when a taxi finally pulled up, and John gratefully dove into the backseat, relishing in the warmth of the vehicle. He told the cabby where to go, and sat back against the seats, thinking about the best way to conceal a bag of fingernails. Nothing came to mind.

Having managed to obtain the nails, hiding it (not so) subtly under his jacket, he took his time going up the stairs of 221B, trying to prevent his doctor's instincts from overriding his mind just to tell him what he already knew; a cold was definitely on its way. Marvellous.

John wasted no time in stripping himself of his dripping clothes and stepped into the shower, standing immobile for five minutes and praying that he'd prevented the worst of his cold. The sneeze that followed begged to differ.

He spent the rest of the evening in his pyjamas, pottering about the flat and tidying up Sherlock's mess. He managed to rid the kitchen table completely of experiments, and also sorted a filing system of sorts with the body parts in the fridge. It had gone ten o'clock when John collapsed into his armchair with a warm cup of tea, and the doctor found himself beginning to worry about the detective. He couldn't care less if anything happened to Adler, though he knew he'd never forgive The Woman if something Sherlock were to come to any harm. The sound of the clock ticking from the mantle echoed loudly around the flat, and John found his eyes drooping. Mentally, he told himself to get up and go to bed, but his body had other plans, and he was asleep within minutes, the empty mug hanging loosely from his grip.

"John."

The doctor jolted awake when a hand grasped his shoulder, and he looked up into Sherlock's icy blue eyes. The detective still had his coat and scarf on, so it was evident he'd only just gotten back.

"Wazza time?" John slurred, squinting at the clock.

"It's a few minutes past midnight." Sherlock said, straightening and heading towards the kitchen. "I told you not to wait up." he called.

"I wasn't," John muttered. "I had every intention of going up to bed, which, if you don't mind, I'll do now." He wearily got to his feet and began to head towards the stairs when Sherlock called him back.

"I doubt you'll want to sleep in your room, not unless you're happy to share a bed with Irene." he said.

John paused in the doorway. He took a breath. "_Why _is she in my bed?" he asked tensely.

"I offered it to her. Where else was she going to sleep?"

"Where am _I _going to sleep?"

"On the sofa of course. Night." The detective smiled at him before strolling to his own room, leaving John still stood in the doorway, staring at the space where Sherlock had been.

He spent the next fortnight sleeping on the couch, being ignored by Sherlock and Adler. The two of them continued to waltz off and finish whatever case they were on, only coming back to the flat every other day, and even then they were usually there for around four hours at a time. Sometimes, John would receive texts from Sherlock, telling him to get files from Lestrade or collect more body parts from Molly. His cold had developed, until the flat was littered with tissue boxes, and the faint smell of soup roamed the area. Mrs Hudson sometimes came up and made him lunch, "Just this once, mind you," and they'd sit together and watch crappy TV. He was happy enough when this happened, but it would have been better if there had been a detective sat there, moaning about the programs they watched.

It was on a Thursday, two weeks and three days after Adler had arrived, when John's life finally got exciting, though the circumstances weren't ones which he was all too pleased with.

He'd just finished another dreary day at work, and John was walking down a street when a black sedan pulled up alongside him. He rolled his eyes and carried on walking, not wanting to deal with Mycroft right now. The car continued to drive next to him, and he smiled slightly, not failing to notice how amusing this could look to an outside person.

It wasn't until one of the car doors opened, and a burly man stepped out, beginning to walk next to John, that he knew something was up. Mycroft never resorted to this; it was either wait for John to get in, or drive off after a few minutes and ambush him later.

The doctor frowned, and increased his pace, the man matching his strides effortlessly. John opened his mouth to say something, when the stranger grabbed his arm roughly and hauled him into the nearest alleyway.

Determination coursed through the ex-soldier, and he quickly drew back his free arm and swung it towards his assailant. The man had a laughably slow reaction time, and John's fist hit him square in the nose. A cry of pain came from him, and the thug staggered back, clutching his face.

John prepared himself to tackle the man, but strong arms from behind grasped him, and he felt something sharp prick into his neck. Panic bubbled inside of him, but before he could do anything, his legs gave out from beneath him, causing him to stumble forwards, the only thing holding him up being the arms that still had a firm hold on him.

He was vaguely aware of being dragged towards the black sedan, and he knew he'd put up a feeble fight, but his vision swam and he could do nothing but let himself be hauled by the two men. His last thought was whether Sherlock would even notice he was gone, before he blacked out completely.


	27. Useless II

When John awoke, it was with a pounding headache, and he craved nothing more than to fall back unconscious. But it was not to be, as his mind was already furiously trying to work out where he was. It seemed to be a basement – _typical_, he thought to himself – and the room was also completely bare. No furniture, no lighting, no wallpaper, nothing. It wasn't very reassuring, either, to realise that his arms were raised above his head, and a sturdy piece of rope meant he was dangling from the ceiling, his feet only just scuffing the ground. _'Spose it would explain why I can't feel my arms, then_, he mused. His neck was extremely stiff, though whether it was from the drug or because his head had been lolling on his chest for God knows how long, he wasn't sure. Thankfully, he was still dressed in his checked shirt, jeans and brown sneakers, which at least meant he could keep some of his dignity intact.

Vague memories kept floating through his mind, until he could recall a solid flashback. Having a cold was the first thing he remembered, funnily enough. As if to support this point, he sneezed violently, and the doctor inside him tutted and told him to get warm... soon, or else there'd be more than just a cold to take care of.

He looked up towards the ceiling, and groaned when he saw the blood caking his wrists, some of it still fresh and trickling down his arms, whilst dried flecks decorated the rope. He flexed his fingers, and instantly regretted it when bolts of pain flashed through his limbs, causing his headache to worsen that little bit more.

With a loud clang, the door opposite him opened to reveal a young man, who must have been around twenty, walking towards him, dressed all in black; military boots, trousers and t-shirt. He had short, dark brown hair, and the way he walked screamed _soldier_.

John sniffed, "Evening... or is it? I don't know for sure, seeing as I've been unconscious for...?"

The young man grimaced, "Twenty seven hours, sir." he said.

"_Twenty seven _hours? What the hell did you give me?" John asked, incredulous, tugging slightly at the rope around his wrists.

"I'm afraid that's classified, sir."

"Classi– wait a second, why are you calling me 'sir'? I'm you're prisoner." he asked, frowning.

"My employer has specified that you be treated with respect."

"Respect? You call this–" he tugged at the rope again, "– respect?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but this is all necessary."

John sighed, "Of course this is. What's your name, kid?" he asked, thinking they may as well chat.

The young soldier fidgeted slightly. "I'm not sure I'm allowed to say..." he began, but John shook his head.

"What's so wrong with me knowing your name? I won't blab to anyone, if that's what you're–"

"No, no, it's not that sir... It's just... oh, never mind. My name's Campbell. Percy Campbell, sir."

John nodded, "Well then you can call me John, instead of sir." he smiled. Clearly the young soldier was nervous and would rather be anywhere than here with the doctor.

Campbell smiled slightly, but it vanished as quickly as it came. "I have to tell you that you are not being held for information, but rather because of another person's actions."

John rolled his eyes, "What's Sherlock done now?" he asked in exasperation.

"I can't tell you. But... I do have to tell you that you will most probably be tortured."

John grimaced, "Cheers for the heads up." he muttered. The situation was so bizarre, and he honestly wouldn't be able to predict what could happen next.

"My employer sends his apologies. He said that an example had to be made, though."

"Don't suppose you can tell me who your employer is?" John asked.

"I'm afraid not. Sorry about this." Campbell stepped forward, and directed a powerful left hook at John's face, catching the doctor around his right eye. John grunted and let his head loll upon his chest, not bothering to look up at the soldier. He could hear footsteps die away, and the clang of the door closing signified that he was alone once more.

* * *

It took Sherlock four days to realise John was missing. _Four _days. And it hadn't even been him who'd realised. Mycroft had. _Mycroft_.

He and Irene had decided to return to 221B after two days of chasing after someone who had a grudge against The Woman. Apparently it was her cousin, but he decided not to ask. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't been _entirely _sure what they were doing sometimes, but the thrill of the chase had overridden everything else, so he'd willingly gone along with it.

When he entered the living room, it was to find his brother sitting in his armchair, a thin file in his hand as he fiddled with his umbrella and casted a lazy eye around the flat. Sherlock made an act of ignoring him as he removed his coat and scarf then collapsed into John's chair opposite Mycroft. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Irene head upstairs, though not before giving him a sly wink.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the government official expectantly.

"How's the investigation going?" Mycroft asked.

"Fine." Sherlock answered monotonously.

"Have you found him yet? No, that was a silly question, of course you haven't."

The detective frowned defensively, "I'll have you know that we're very close to–"

"'We'? Whose 'we'?"

"Myself and Irene, of course." Sherlock said with a sigh.

Mycroft frowned in confusion for a second, before raising his eyebrows with surprise. "So – ahem – Doctor Watson isn't aiding you?" he asked.

"No, no. He's busy."

"Busy doing what?" Mycroft questioned.

"He's – er – he's been working."

"He has been working... for four days?"

Sherlock faltered. Had he really been chasing around with Irene for four days? He was ashamed to say he hadn't even noticed whether John had been at the flat or not.

Mycroft smiled slightly, "And here I was thinking we were talking about the same thing a few moments ago."

The detective's eyes narrowed, "You knew he's missing." It wasn't a question.

The elder Holmes nodded, "I can honestly say I thought you did, too."

"What happened?"

Mycroft leaned forward and offered the file to his brother, who snatched it away from him and opened it hurriedly.

"He was last seen on Thursday, and nobody's seen him since."

"Obviously," Sherlock huffed. He looked down at the CCTV photos contained in the file, and felt his stomach churn uncomfortably at the images of John being ambushed by the two men, one of which the doctor clearly hadn't noticed. The last photograph sent a rush of anger through him when he saw the two thugs dragging his unconscious friend towards a black sedan.

"What have you been doing to find him?" Sherlock asked, looking up at Mycroft.

The government official sighed, "I'm afraid there isn't much I can do." he said, "No ransom demand has come through, so I can only assume you've done something to upset John's assailants." Mycroft looked at him, waiting for an answer.

Sherlock shrugged in an offhand manner. "They wouldn't know about John, he hasn't been on any recent cases."

"No," Mycroft said solemnly, "He hasn't. And whose fault was that?"

Sherlock frowned, "If he had, he would've been kidnapped anyway."

"Yes, but you would have known about sooner, rather than four days later." The detective opened his mouth to argue, but Mycroft cut him off. "No, Sherlock, listen to me for once. You can't continue to mistreat John – yes you are, you're just too obsessed with Miss Adler to see how much you hurt him whenever you reject him."

"Oh, and I suppose _you _see how much I hurt him?" Sherlock snapped.

"Yes, I do." Mycroft said sternly, rising to his feet, "And I suggest you find him before you lose him completely." He spun on his heel and strolled purposefully out the door, not bothering to look back.

Sherlock remained in his chair, staring absentmindedly at the photographs on his lap. He had work to do.

* * *

John groaned as another punch struck him roughly in the gut. He doubled forward as far as he could go and took steady breaths, waiting patiently for the pain to pass. His head was spinning, and the nauseating feeling in his stomach would not go away. The lack of food and water left him too weak to fight back, barely having enough strength to keep a conversation going. He could see the shoes in front of him walk back a few metres, giving him some space. _How quaint. What is it, Day Six now?_ He raised his head stiffly and glared at the man in front of him. It wasn't Campbell, and a question had been bugging him for ages.

"Can I ask you... something?" he rasped, struggling to calm his breathing. "Where's Percy? I'd much prefer... him to do this." At least the young soldier had shown a little remorse every time he had to strike the doctor; this guy was emotionless, and the first thing that came to mind was _hired_, probably especially for this job.

"He is currently indisposed." The man said. He seemed to be around John's age, and big muscles were protruding from his shirt.

John frowned, "What do you mean... indisposed? Look, if this was because... he gave his name, I can–"

"No, it's not because of that." The man said, shaking his head. "He's actually appealing to our employer in your defence."

"He is? And what... are the chances of your employer... listening to him?" John prompted, determined to see the end of this conversation.

"Slim, but not unheard of." he answered. "You've been here long enough anyway, so I'm sure the Boss will be feeling generous."

"Very reassuring." John murmured. "Do you know why... Campbell's doing it?"

The guy shrugged, "He said he knew you, and didn't like to see you put through this sort of situation again."

"Again?" the doctor echoed, a sneeze following, "Bless me. How does he know me?"

"I'm under the impression that you two served together in Afghanistan." The man said nothing more as he turned towards the door, but John called him back.

"Wait! Tell him... tell him I said thanks, will you? Whether it... works or not." The thug nodded, but John hadn't finished. "Also, what's the date?"

The man thought for a second before answering as he left the room. "2nd of December. Happy birthday, Doctor." The door closed with a loud clang.

"Cheers." John muttered, wondering how on earth he'd known it was his birthday today. What was more interesting, however, was Percy Campbell's association with him.

It was true, the name Campbell did ring a bell, but he could only faintly remember everyone in his regiment, so he wouldn't be surprised if the young soldier did in fact serve with him. The list narrowed down, though, when he thought back to the time he'd been held hostage in Afghanistan. The thug just now had said Campbell didn't want to see him put through this again, so the soldier must have been with him when he and a small group had been kidnapped. Yes, he had been tortured then, but so had many others, and possibly Campbell too. There was no telling what else Percy knew, he only knew that he needed to find the soldier when this was over and find him a better job rather than working for criminals.

* * *

It was seven o'clock in the morning, and six days after John had been taken when Mycroft found him. Sherlock had received a single text, saying, _First Fruit Warehousing, North Greenwich – MH_. The detective had known immediately where that warehouse was, and had wasted no time in scooping up his coat and thundering down the steps, out onto Baker Street. Seconds later, Irene appeared next to him and hailed a cab, getting in and waiting for him to follow. He didn't say anything, merely sat in the seat next to her and drummed his fingers against his knee, willing the cab to go faster.

A sudden ringing interrupted the silence, and Sherlock quickly fished around in his pocket until his fingers closed upon his phone. Drawing it out and clicking the receive button, he held it to his ear.

"What now? Why are you calling?" he barked.

"There's more to it than we first thought," Mycroft's voice echoed down the line, "I've been tipped off that the warehouse is covered in explosives, and the timer is already counting down."

Sherlock felt his heart plummet, "How long?" he asked.

"Ten minutes, Sherlock. I've already phoned Detective Inspector Lestrade, and he's going to meet you there. Wait for him." his brother said sternly.

"Of course." the detective lied, disconnecting the call. He felt a foreign hand on his leg, and he looked across to see Irene smiling softly at him.

"We'll find the Doctor," she purred. "I'm sure he's absolutely fine, and then we can go back to hunting down my cousin." she smiled again at him, but Sherlock ignored her, looking back out the window.

Seven minutes later and the taxi pulled up directly outside the warehouse.

Sherlock leapt out and raced towards the building, not bothering to see if Irene was following him. In the distance he could hear sirens wailing, but he paid them no attention as he reached one of the side doors and snuck in. Immediately, he was assaulted by the sound of a woman's voice coming from a number of overhead speakers, clearly counting down.

_Three minutes remaining. Repeat, three minutes remaining._

Sherlock didn't pause to listen, instead he ran down corridors alongside Irene, twisting and turning around corners, all the while praying that he'd make it in time.

At the very end of one corridor, the detective could see an open door. He began to jog towards it cautiously, but his pace began to increase until he was sprinting as fast as he could towards the small (and _unconscious _– dear Lord, he's unconscious) figure he could see hanging from the ceiling in the distance. Time seemed to slow down as his mind instantly categorised everything about John Watson, noting the black eye that was slowly healing, and the way his skin had taken on a deathly pallor.

He was only metres away from reaching the room, when a shout from behind halted him in his tracks. Sherlock spun on his heel and watched in horror as a burly man grabbed Irene from behind and pressed a gun to the side of her head.

"Move any closer to 'im an' I'll spread 'er brains over the floor." the thug growled.

The detective paled, looking from the struggling Irene, and over to the unconscious form of John. At the back of his mind, he noted the mindless droning.

_Two minutes remaining_. What the hell was he going to do?


	28. Useless III

Sherlock sighed. Everything was happening at once. He needed to _think_. Irene was still in a choking grip held by the burly thug, and John was still hanging lifelessly from the ceiling. And that damned counting was still... counting. A minute and a half left.

"Sherlock!" A voice from behind Irene ricocheted around the narrow corridor, and Sherlock peered around the two figures to see DI Lestrade running towards him. The thug, momentarily distracted, loosened his hold on The Woman, and she immediately took advantage of the situation. With a snarl, she gripped her assailant's arm and twisted it roughly behind him, eliciting a cry from the giant. Lestrade had joined her by now, and the two of them wasted no time in subduing the thug.

Sherlock didn't bother to watch the assault, instead turned and ran into the bare room John was being held in. He reached the doctor and began rummaging through his flatmate's back pockets. With a triumphant smile, he withdrew a small pocketknife and started sawing carelessly through the ropes that were digging mercilessly into the ex-soldier's wrists. Within seconds the binding were no more, and John collapsed to the floor. Having anticipated it, however, Sherlock threw the knife aside and caught John easily in his arms, lowering him to the ground. He could see the doctor's eyes flickering from beneath his eyelids, but he didn't have time to attempt to wake him, instead lifting him gently and cradling his friend to his chest whilst he hurried from the room.

The burly man was now lying unconscious on the floor, and Lestrade and Irene were at the other end of the corridor, increasing their speed when _one minute remaining _reverberated through the building. Irene flew through the door and out of sight, but Greg slowed and looked behind him, making sure that Sherlock was following.

"Go! Get out of here!" Sherlock called, holding John tighter to him as he began to run faster. The Inspector nodded and headed out the door, only a few metres in front of the detective, who was forcing himself not to listen to the _forty-three, forty-two, forty-one_ that continued to taunt him.

Twenty seconds later and the trio emerged onto the streets. Lestrade headed straight for his car, opening the backdoor as he did so then hurrying round to the driver's seat. Irene made to follow him, but Sherlock stopped her.

"Go home, Miss Adler. You're no longer needed here." he said sternly, moving towards the police car.

"What are you talking about? We haven't found–"

"I don't care. You've done enough."

Adler raised her eyebrows, "You're blaming me for this?"

"Obviously."

She laughed cruelly, "I wasn't the one who completely ignored his pet."

"_Get out of my sight_." Sherlock hissed, his eyes blazing.

Adler shook her head in exasperation, a mocking smile playing on her features as she turned and headed down an alleyway, vanishing from sight.

"Sherlock! Get in, now!" Greg called from the car. _Twelve, eleven, ten._

The detective didn't need to be told twice. Within seconds he was sliding in the backseat, John lying across his lap, and Lestrade accelerated without hesitation.

"Sh'lock?" A faint murmur came from John, and Sherlock strained to hear him. The doctor's eyes were half-open, watching him with a slightly unfocused gaze.

"It's alright, I'm here." he responded, squeezing John's arm reassuringly.

"Took you long enough." John muttered, eyes sliding shut as he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

"Far too long." Sherlock whispered to himself. In the distance, a deafening _boom _sounded throughout the streets, and black smoke swirled upwards.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice was shaky, "Do you know if anyone else was in the building?" he asked.

"No, I doubt there would have been. Whoever took John had gone to the trouble of making sure the place was deserted before deciding to blow it up..." Sherlock trailed off, his mind latching onto something he'd previously overlooked.

"What's the matter?" The DI met Sherlock's gaze through the mirror, and the detective's brow furrowed.

"The explosion was seventeen seconds late." he said.

"Isn't that a good thing?" Lestrade asked, though it was obvious he too was puzzled.

"Hmm? Oh, probably. Wait, where are you going? Baker Street is in that direction!" Sherlock leant forward as the car passed the turning into the city centre.

"I'm not going to Baker Street, I'm taking John to a bloody hospital. Look at him!"

Sherlock didn't need to. He'd already noticed the black eye that was beginning to fade, the numerous cuts across his face and body, the broken ribs, the light sheen of sweat suggesting a mild fever, the inflamed shoulder that was thankfully not dislocated; not to mention the stark white his skin had turned.

"It's fine, Inspector, I can take perfectly good care of him at home." he snapped.

"Sherlock–"

"Don' need hosp'tal." John mumbled, his eyes remaining shut. Sherlock smiled smugly as Lestrade sighed in annoyance before taking another turning towards their flat.

"You alright?" Sherlock asked his friend quietly.

"Never better." he answered, "You?"

"Fine."

"Good. S'good. Just gonna sleep s'more, okay?"

"Okay." Sherlock said gently, not really knowing what else to say. He felt John go limp in his arms, a soft smile playing on his lips. _I don't deserve that smile_, Sherlock thought to himself morosely.

Finally Lestrade pulled up outside 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock wasted no time in carrying the doctor out onto the street then into the flat, the DI ahead of them to open doors and gently move a frantic Mrs. Hudson out of the way.

Sherlock carefully lowered John onto the sofa, grabbing a pillow and placing it behind his head, then throwing an afghan blanket over the small doctor.

Mrs. Hudson hurried downstairs to fetch a bowl of water and disinfectant. Lestrade ran into the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit he'd known would be there. Sherlock, meanwhile, knelt down next to John, hands hovering over the doctor whilst not having a clue what to do.

Greg was the first to return, and he joined Sherlock on the floor as he opened up the first aid kit and pulled out a few bandages. Sherlock watched with mild surprise as the Inspector undid John's shirt and efficiently began to wrap the bandages around his chest, making sure the bindings were tight and firm. Mrs Hudson reappeared, and she and Greg began to wipe at the numerous cuts that were beginning to dry; the landlady tutting every now and then, muttering about "how careless you boys are."

For the moment Sherlock had stepped back and allowed the two to clean up John, but as soon as they paused he had jumped forward, soaking a flannel that Mrs Hudson had brought up and laying it across John's forehead in order to stop the inevitable fever from developing. The doctor was already warmer than usual, and it was clear to see the faint tremors that wracked his body. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade had moved to stand behind the detective, watching as the younger man straightened the blanket and patted the ex-soldier in a feeble attempt to offer comfort.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I – er, I'd better be going. I'll have to take your statement soon, but if you need anything you know where I am." he said nervously.

Sherlock nodded, still watching John. "Thank you, Inspector." he said. Greg smiled sadly, saying his goodbyes to Mrs Hudson before leaving.

It was only now that Lestrade had left that the landlady let out a small sniffle. Surprised, Sherlock turned around and guided her to his chair, crouching down and scrutinising her closely. She brushed him away, however.

"Go see to John, dear. I'm fine, I'm being silly, is all. It's just... this is all terrible, especially today."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Well, you know. First that Irene woman turns up again, and John's left to sit and chat with me, which I'm sure must bore him to death, though he never complains, bless him. Oh, I'm not blaming you, Sherlock–"

The detective held up his hand to silence her. "It was my fault, Mrs Hudson. I should have paid more attention to him, otherwise he wouldn't have gotten into this mess. Though who could have possibly known that he was going to be on his own rather than with me, I can't know for sure..." Sherlock trailed off, knowing that Mrs Hudson wasn't really listening anymore, as was evident by the way her eyes were watching the unconscious doctor fondly.

"...And on his birthday too, poor thing." she muttered, getting up and heading towards the kitchen with a sigh.

"What? What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, feeling another pang of guilt rush through him.

"It's the 2nd of December, John's birthday. You didn't know?" She turned to face him, standing behind John's chair. "Sherlock Holmes, tell me you knew it was his birthday today." she said sternly.

"I – he never mentioned it..." he answered, feeling like a small child being told off by his mother.

"And you never asked." she finished. "He knows when you're birthday is, but you clearly had more important things to worry about than to find out when his is."

"It's just a birthday." Sherlock muttered, which was clearly the wrong thing to say, for Mrs Hudson's features grew sterner, if that was possible.

"But can't you remember the feeling of elation you get when John hands over his gift for you? I know that when it's my birthday, and I'm feeling older by the second, the sight of him with a giant birthday cake, his clothes covered in flour, never fails to cheer me up. You've lived with him for... three years now? And not once have you wondered at what time of the year he becomes older? Of course he's not going to mention it; you know he never likes to cause a fuss. Though surely at Christmas – the one time you bother to buy gifts, it would seem – you notice the way his face lights up with whatever he receives, whether he likes it or not?

"Well, I can honestly say I hope you've learned your lesson, young man, and not just regarding John's birthday." With that, the elder woman marched from the flat and down the stairs towards her own home, leaving Sherlock still crouched on the floor near his chair.

A faint murmur snapped him from his thoughts, and he slowly made his way over to the sofa, kneeling as John's eyelids fluttered.

"John?" he called softly, "Can you hear me?"

Frowning slightly, the doctor opened his eyes a fraction, enough for Sherlock to see those hazel eyes that were usually so full of life, now dimmed and filled with pain.

"How do you feel?" Sherlock asked.

"Marvellous." John answered, "Did someone mention Christmas? I wasn't out for that long, was I?"

For the first time in three weeks, Sherlock let out a genuine laugh, exhaling with relief as he saw John smile, too.

"No, it's not Christmas yet. Still your birthday though."

John rubbed at his eyes wearily, "Failed to keep that a secret, then." he said.

"Mmm. Though you've probably got plenty of other secrets that I haven't yet worked out."

"Probably." John muttered, stifling a yawn. "Christ, it's hot in here. Couldn't open a window, could you?"

"It's December John, and it's snowing outside. I'm afraid your illness has worsened."

"Brilliant. You might want to place a bucket nearby some time soon. As well as a stack of tissue boxes. And I won't blame you if you leave for a few days. I don't want you catching this."

"Leave? Don't be so absurd. I have all my experiments that I haven't yet finished, and I'm not planning on abandoning them for anything."

"S'great." John muttered, trying to fight sleep, "You go do that. I'm gonna go back to sleep. Night."

Sherlock smirked as outside he heard Big Ben strike two o'clock in the afternoon. "Night, John. Happy Birthday."


	29. Useless IV

John's fever had escalated far quicker than Sherlock had anticipated. The doctor had remained on the sofa, drifting in and out of unconsciousness whilst Sherlock did his best to keep him cool, but it didn't seem to help at all. The detective was beginning to panic.

"Really, dear, you need to keep a glass of water nearby for whenever he wakes up." Thank God for Mrs Hudson, "The poor boy is far too dehydrated for my liking, but there's nothing you can do about it. Have you taken his temperature?"

"Yes, it read 39.2°C." Sherlock answered, moving from one window to the other, opening them as he did so to get some cool air inside.

"Hmm, you'll have to watch him closely, that temperature goes any higher and he'll have to go to a hospital."

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Hudson. I am fully aware of the dangers of a fever." Sherlock snapped as he dragged his armchair closer to the sofa and sat down in it.

His landlady sighed, but didn't reply. She patted the young detective on the shoulder before taking her leave, sighing as she left.

Sherlock huffed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. John had been sleeping for three hours, even if it had been a fitful sleep. His temperature had continued to creep up, and Sherlock had tried to do all he could to bring it back down. Placing a hand against the doctor's forehead, he noted that John wasn't any warmer, though he wasn't any cooler, either. Not good. Every now and then John would stir, muttering incoherently and trying to draw a blanket close to him to stop the tremors wracking his body, only to have the blanket snatched away by Sherlock, knowing that added heat wasn't going to improve matters.

"Come on, John." Sherlock muttered, absentmindedly tracing his thumb across his flatmate's forehead. "Fight it."

"His condition has not improved, I take it?"

Sherlock jumped at the sound of Mycroft's voice, and he turned to see his big brother leaning casually against the doorframe, his umbrella hanging from one of his arms. He mentally cursed himself for not hearing Mycroft sooner – so caught up was he looking after John – for he could have shut the door in his face.

"What can I do for you now, Mycroft?" the detective said sardonically.

Mycroft shrugged, "Merely came to check up on the two of you."

Sherlock scoffed. "Nice try, brother dear, but that's the biggest lie I've ever heard from you."

"Believe what you will, Sherlock, but I assure you that's why I'm here."

"So why the change of heart, then? You're never usually this concerned, especially for John." he growled.

Mycroft frowned, "I hold a greater respect for John than you think, Sherlock. I know he is essential to your work, and it's never pleasant for me – or anyone, I'm sure – to know that the good doctor is in danger."

"Nice t'know you care... so much, Mycroft." John croaked from the sofa.

The two brothers switched their gaze to the ex-soldier, who was struggling to sit up against the couch.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked, helping John upright.

"M'fine." he answered with a yawn.

Both Holmeses raised their eyebrows at him.

John stared at them, "What? I mean it. I am –"

"– Perfectly fine, yes we know." Mycroft finished. "Though it is surprising, considering the ordeal your captors have put you through." he said

John nodded slowly, "Yes, well. It wasn't so bad."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You've been beaten, starved and picked up a dangerous fever."

"I know, but the men themselves were nice enough. I'm sure Campbell helped convince his employer."

Mycroft nodded absentmindedly, "Yes, he was very persuasi–" He froze suddenly, closing his eyes when he realised what he'd said.

Sherlock's frown deepened as he turned to John. "You've never mentioned a 'Campbell'."

John grimaced, watching Mycroft. "Exactly." he replied.

"But then how–?" He too stopped midsentence as the realisation hit him like an oncoming bus. Slowly, he turned to his brother.

"Mycroft." he growled, "A word?"

The government official took a breath before nodding, following his younger brother through to the detective's room. Sherlock slammed the door shut.

"What the _hell _did you think you were doing?" he seethed.

Mycroft watched him steadily. "It was the only way I could make you see–"

"Make me see? What on earth do you mean by that?"

"It means that taking John was the only way for you to notice–"

"Notice what? I notice everything."

"Apparently not your flatmate, though. You were–"

"I was _what_? Don't try and–"

"_Will you stop interrupting me?_" Mycroft shouted. He sighed and quickly regained his composure. Sherlock remained silent.

"Taking John," the elder Holmes said gently, "was the only way to make you realise he wasn't actually there. Admittedly, that wasn't the best plan, especially as you didn't notice–"

"I was–"

"No, don't make excuses. It took you _four days_ for you to finally figure it out, and you didn't even do it. I was the one who had to come round and wave the file in your face. You are as much to blame for this as I am, Sherlock."

"Yes, but _kidnapping _John, was extremely dangerous of you. If you had killed him–"

"Under no circumstances would I have allowed Doctor Watson to die. He was being monitored constantly, and there was never any real danger–"

"You had him beaten half to death, and you didn't even _feed _him. How can you stand there and tell me that he was in no real danger? And apparently, it was only because of this Campbell person that you even decided to tell me where he wa – _oh_." Sherlock said, staring off into space, pressing his steepled fingertips to his chin.

"Sherlock–"

"_That's _why the explosion was delayed. _You _were the one who detonated it. Were you casually sat in your office, watching us all panic as the countdown echoed through the factory on a load of CCTV screens?"

"What, like you did at Baskerville?" Mycroft retorted sharply.

"So that's what this has all been about? My using John in an experiment? You really–"

"No, that's not why I did it, but it certainly contributed to my reasons. John is not a toy to play with, Sherlock. I think he let you off far too easily for what you did to him."

"For what _I _did to him? What about you? Do you think you'll be forgiven just as easily?"

"No, I don't. But I know that the doctor is a good man, and he will probably forgive me too easily as well."

"This is unacceptable, Mycroft." Sherlock said solemnly. "You have gone too far, this time."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "And what do you plan on doing? At least in this way you have finally drawn your eyes away from Miss Adler and onto the person who needs you the most, and who _you _need the most. If it comes to it, I will not hesitate to do it again."

Sherlock stepped closer, a venomous look in his eyes, "Don't you _ever_ play with John's life again." he snarled.

"Don't give me a reason to." Mycroft shot back, meeting Sherlock's gaze calmly.

"Get the hell out of this flat."

Mycroft smiled condescendingly, before walking out of the bedroom. Sherlock stayed where he was for a moment, trying to block out the cheery "afternoon John," that his brother called as he left.

After a few steadying breaths, he moved back into the living room, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the vacated sofa, the only evidence suggesting there had been a sick man there being the mountain of blankets. He had a fleeting thought of whether Mycroft had managed to drag John down the stairs with him, but he quickly dispelled the idea when the sound of retching came from the bathroom.

Sherlock walked down the hall, and stopped in the doorway, watching as John knelt on the floor and retched into the toilet, though nothing came up. Once his stomach had finished constricting, the doctor slumped backwards against the bath, sweating profusely and panting heavily. Upon seeing Sherlock, he gave a weary smile as he wiped his brow.

"Mycroft confessed, then?" he rasped, eyeing the side of the bath suspiciously.

Sherlock caught onto what he wanted to do, and moved forward. "Yes." he answered, "How did you know it was him?" He bent down and let John latch onto his arms, before hoisting the doctor back to his feet. John swayed for a few moments, but Sherlock's firm grip meant that he wouldn't be meeting the floor anytime soon.

The two of them slowly made their way back to the living room as John spoke, "Percy Campbell." he said. "I could tell he was a soldier, but I couldn't work out _why _a soldier would suddenly decide to turn to the 'bad side', so to speak. The only explanations I thought of was that he was being blackmailed, or his employer wasn't actually 'bad'."

Sherlock helped lower John back onto the sofa. The doctor lay down, letting out a sigh of satisfaction, his eyes drooping shut.

"John," the detective called, "You haven't finished."

"Hmm? Oh right, sorry. Anyway, it seemed unlikely that Percy was being threatened, seeing as he'd just returned from a war, and so had no reason to be blackmailed, so I turned my thoughts to his employer.

"He would have had to have been someone who knew me or you, and seeing as you'd been working with Adler for the past three weeks, it wouldn't have made sense for them... to take me." John yawned, eyes drifting shut again. Sherlock lightly tapped him on the cheek, curious to know how John had come to his conclusion.

"Yes, yes, alright... So, it was someone who already knew us. If it had been someone from a previous case, then why would they suddenly decide to strike now? And anyhow, this person was meant to be on the 'good side'. It sounds bad, but the only person I could think of who knew us, was in some considerable power, hired ex-soldiers, and was still compassionate was your brother. Then the pieces began to fit, like when I heard you say that the explosion was seventeen seconds late. Your brother wanted to set an example, but not get you harmed as well."

"You're not angry?"

The doctor yawned again. "I'm bloody furious... but s'okay. I can... see why he did it."

Sherlock frowned. "Why did he do it, then?"

John smiled slightly, eyes now definitely closed. "To protect you." he mumbled. "Adler was going to hurt you sooner or later, and he felt the need to step in."

"Though his method was slightly unorthodox." he muttered under his breath, before looking back at John. "That was impressive." he admitted.

John hummed. "'M not as useless as you think." he murmured.

Sherlock frowned. "I don't think you're useless. You're invaluable to my work. I meant it when I said I'd be lost without my blogger. Do you really think I find you useless? John?" he sighed when he saw that John had drifted off to sleep.

"Rude." Sherlock said aloud, turning to head to the kitchen. He stopped when he felt a hand on his wrist.

"I'm kidding, Sherlock. Thank you, by the way. 'S nice to know you're human."

"Of course I'm human, John. I possess all the cells–"

"I meant emotionally." the doctor interrupted, hazel eyes blinking up at him, sparkling with amusement.

"Oh." Sherlock said, looking about the flat for something to do as John's grip slackened and he really did fall asleep. After a few minutes of standing there and not doing anything, he placed a hand against John's forehead, letting it linger there for a while longer before removing it, content (and also surprised) that the doctor's fever was beginning to fall.

"Always the soldier, John." he muttered as he moved to the window, violin in hand, and began to play a soft lullaby.


	30. Violin

_**Violin: **__A stringed musical instrument of treble pitch, played with a horsehair bow._

"Do it yourself, for once, young man!"

John closed the front door of 221B behind him and glanced up to see Mrs Hudson storming down the stairs. He offered a tired smile when she noticed him, and her expression instantly brightened.

"Evening, dear." she said, "How was work?"

"Busy." John answered with a grimace. "What's he done now?" he asked, motioning to the top of the stairs where the strenuous sounds of a violin could be heard.

"Nothing he hasn't done before." Mrs Hudson replied with a sigh. "I've been nagging him to tidy up all day; the place really is a landfill, what with all the mess he makes..."

"I'll see what I can do." John interrupted with a kiss to the landlady's cheek. She smiled and patted him on the arm before turning to go back to her own flat, leaving John to face the stairs.

When he walked into the living room, the screeching had stopped – the violin laying discarded on the floor amongst papers and files. The place was a tip. Case notes were strewn across the carpet, the kitchen table had no free room due to the amount of lab equipment on top, more bullet holes decorated the wall, one of the armchairs was overturned, and he really didn't want to know what body parts were currently living in the fridge. He was _not _in the mood to clean this up.

"Have you gone completely deaf, John?" Sherlock asked as he stood looking out of the window.

"Hmm?" John asked, frowning at the back of the detective.

"I've asked you for Kieran Fold's case file at least thirty six times." he answered.

"I've... been at work." the ex-soldier said, though he began to rifle through the mess on the floor in order to find this case file.

"That's not my fault." Sherlock muttered, "Lestrade's coming in about ten minutes to give me more information on the case. Something's not right, though." he trailed off, arms folded and his fingers absent-mindedly tapping them.

"You might want to tidy up, if Greg's going to be here. I doubt he'll appreciate having to wade through stacks of papers after a hard day's work." John said, looking around the place.

Sherlock scoffed, "Scotland Yard flaps and flounders without me. It is highly unlikely Lestrade has ever had a hard day's work."

"Yeah, but the amount of paperwork _you_ leave him totals far more than he should have to put up with."  
The detective chose to ignore this comment as John finally located the case file and made his way over to Sherlock. Standing next to him, John handed over the folder and glanced out of the window. Rush hour had struck London, and he watched the people sitting impatiently in their cars, or taxis, the queues moving slowly inch by inch. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock furiously flipping through the case file, and John knew he was beginning to get frustrated at whatever it was he couldn't find.

"Need some help?" John asked, peering over Sherlock's shoulder to glance at the file.

"Why would I need your help?" he muttered, skimming through the various pieces of text.

John sighed, "Who knows?" he answered.

Sherlock didn't seem to appreciate this comment. With a growl, he threw the file to the floor and clutched his head in his hands. "Stop talking! I need to _think_!"

"Sherlock–"

"Shut up!" he all but shouted.

"I'm sor–"

"_Move_! You're too close. MOVE!"

Surprised at the outburst, John staggered backwards.

At the same time, Sherlock's eyes widened, and he looked at John. "No, wait–"

Before he could say anything else, a heart-stopping _crack _resounded through the flat.

John froze, and closed his eyes. He'd felt his foot go through it, yet he hoped with all his might that perhaps he'd missed it, and the _crack _was just in his mind. But when he opened his eyes, the horrified expression on Sherlock's face was all he needed to see.

Glancing down, his stomach plummeted at the sight of the shattered Stradivarius, broken into different-sized chunks with John's foot in the middle of the carnage.

"Sherlock..." John whispered.

When Sherlock spoke, it was in a strained voice, and it was obvious that he was trying to contain his anger.

"Leave. Now." he said, staring at the remains of his beloved violin.

"Sherlock, it was an accident. I didn't mean–"

"John. I said _leave_. Get out."

"W-we can fix it–"

"GET OUT!" he roared as he turned on the doctor, eyes ablaze. "I don't want to see or speak to you, John, so just LEAVE ME ALONE!"

John swallowed, before nodding once. Carefully avoiding the wreckage on the floor, he made his way across the room and down the stairs, the loud _click _of the front door bouncing around Sherlock's head tauntingly.

The detective found he couldn't move. His prized violin... destroyed. The memories seemed to seep out from the remains of the instrument. The cold Christmas when he opened the wrapped violin, given to him by his brother, who nowadays sorely regretted the decision. The funeral of his father, when his tearful mother asked him to play something sweet. The long years he was away from Baker Street, playing sorrowful melodies thanks to Molly, who had managed to take the violin and swap it with another so that John wouldn't notice. The one thing that had remained with him throughout most of his life, torn away from him in an instant.

A tap at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Sherlock? What the hell happened here?" the detective looked up to see Detective Inspector Lestrade looking about the mess on the floor with wide eyes.

"Was there a burglary I didn't hear about?"

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Inspector." Sherlock growled.

"What's wrong? You usually ignore me when I make sarcastic comments."

The detective sighed. Lestrade was brighter than he gave him credit for. "It's nothing." he muttered.

Greg snorted in disbelief. He began to make his way across the rubble towards the younger man, trying to avoid the numerous papers and files. He paused, however, when his eyes fell upon a pile of wooded splinters – some thick and large, some slim and small – and he sighed, recognising the general shape of the mess. He slowly glanced at Sherlock.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Depends on what you think it is. Knowing you, I doubt you've guessed correctly." he answered.

"Sherlock, stop it. Just answer my question." Lestrade said softly.

Sherlock pursed his lips, staring ahead out the window. "Yes, it is. It's my violin."

"What happened?"

"John stood on it."

"Deliberately?" Greg asked coldly, eyes narrowing.

The detective rolled his eyes, "No, not deliberately, Lestrade. John's better than that. He's not one to take his anger out on objects."

"Why was he angry?"

"He wasn't. I was. I shouted, and he stumbled backwards, accidently smashing the violin."

"Why on earth was it lying on the floor?"

"I put it there. Obviously."

Lestrade looked about the flat. "Where is John now?"

"I threw him out."

"You–you threw him out? Why?"

"Because like I said before, Inspector, I was angry. I was frustrated at myself for not being able to find what it was I was looking for, and John was continuing to annoy me. When he... destroyed my violin, I snapped. I yelled at him to get out of here."

By now Greg had upturned John's armchair and was sitting in it, watching Sherlock understandingly. He looked down at his hands in his lap.

"Did you... throw him out permanently?" he asked slowly.

Sherlock sighed. "I don't know. I don't know how he might have taken it, or whether I want him back."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "You're seriously telling me that there's a possibility that you never want to see John again? That's a load of crap, Sherlock, and you know it."

The detective said nothing. Lestrade continued.

"You don't think he's not feeling guilty about this? He knows how much that violin means to you. Hell, everybody at Scotland Yard knows how much you love it–"

"I do not _love _it." Sherlock snapped.

"Fine. But John's probably hating himself right now for what he's done. You know how he takes these things to heart. No doubt _he'll _think you've thrown him out permanently." he added.

"He'll come back." Sherlock said futilely.

"Will he? How do you know?"

"He always–"

"Yes, he does. But usually, _you're _the one to piss him off, not the other way around. He's never told you to leave, has he? Despite all the experiments, the body parts, your inability to be nice every now and then. He's aware of how much he's hurt you, and probably understands why you don't want to see him. But where would he go?"

"His sister, Harriet–"

"–Is an alcoholic who only calls her brother to moan and complain about her life. And who also disapproves of you. If he goes there, he's only going to receive a condescending speech about how this is a good thing, which I'm sure is the last thing he wants. He won't go there."

"Mike Stamford–"

"–Has moved out of London. John's left his phone and his wallet here, so there's no way he's going to be able to get there, even if he wanted to."

"Sarah Sawyer–"

"–Is engaged to someone else. Not only would it be awkward, but John would most likely feel like he's imposing. And he's not going to want to spend each night on the sofa."

"Mycroft–"

"He's never going to go to Mycroft, and you know it. He's far too stubborn for that."

"What about you?"

Lestrade sighed. "I'd be happy to let him stay, Sherlock. But he might think it would be uncomfortable for me, seeing as I constantly work with you, yet I've got one of the people you hate sleeping in my spare room. He wouldn't want me to feel divided."

Sherlock frowned, "I don't hate him..."

"But how does he know that? You've practically thrown him onto the streets."

"Inspector–"

"No, don't look at me like that. You know I'm telling the truth. Now, what are you going to do about it?"

"...I don't know."

Lestrade smiled sadly. "Do you want him back?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Then tell him."

He spun on the spot and glared at the DI. "_How_? How am I supposed to tell him when you've already said he's left his phone and wallet here?"

"If you wanted... I could go fetch him."

"Even if you did, how would you know where he is?"

Lestrade nodded to himself. "I have an inkling."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's lips. "Thank you, Inspector." he said gratefully, deciding not to rise to the bait.

Greg rose to his feet, also smiling. "Anytime." he said as he walked out the flat.

When he heard the front door close, Sherlock flopped down into his armchair with a great sigh. His eyes wandered over to the remains of his violin, and his heart sank. He really was going to miss playing it. Yes, he knew it was just an object, but he'd still helplessly formed an attachment to it ever since he was five. Still, no violin was better than no John.

It was four hours later when he heard the front door open, and outside darkness had quickly fallen. Sherlock had remained slouched in his chair, but he sat a little straighter when he heard the familiar tread upon the stairs. There was a pause outside the door, and Sherlock heard something being put down, before ever so slowly it opened with a loud creak, and John cautiously looked inside. When he saw Sherlock, he gave a hesitant smile as he shuffled more into the living room until he was stood in the middle of the floor, playing with the hem of his sleeve.

"Sherlock, I'm–"

"John, what–"

Both men stopped when they heard each other speak, and John gave a pained smile.

"You go." he muttered, avoiding eye contact.

"No, you go."

The doctor let out a quiet laugh. "We can't both beat about the bush, Sherlock. I wanted to say that I'm truly sorry for breaking your violin. I know that you treasured it dearly, and if you want me to leave for good... then I'll understand. But you should know that it was purely accidental, and I'd never intentionally destroy it..."

"John." Sherlock said gently, cutting him off. The doctor looked up at him expectantly. "I was going to say that whatever apologies you were going to give, don't. I realise it wasn't your fault, and it was unkind of me to tell you to leave. I would very much appreciate it if you stayed."

John smiled softly, knowing that speech would have been hard for the detective. "I'd love to stay." he answered, and a wave of relief visibly washed over Sherlock. "Still, though, your violin remains broken, and I can only hope this will at least partly make up for it." he moved out of the room and into the hallway. Sherlock frowned and stood up, about to protest when the doctor came back in with a long case. Wordlessly, he handed it over to Sherlock, who accepted it with another frown. Upon opening it, his eyebrows skyrocketed when he saw a slender Stradivarius resting in its case. The antique had clearly been restored, and it was all Sherlock could do to stop from gasping.

"John..." he whispered. "Where on earth did you get this? There are only around seven hundred left in the world. It would have cost you a fortune..."

John shrugged. "It doesn't matter how much–"

"I think you'll find it does. People have earned at least one million at auctions. This would be several hundred thousand, at least."

"Sherlock," John said with a smile. "Just accept it. Let me worry about the money."

"I – thank you. Though I really don't deserve it."

"I'm only replacing what you already had. It's the least I could do."

Sherlock smiled, looking up at John. "I feel as if I should buy you an x-ray machine or something."

The doctor laughed, pulling out his phone when he felt it buzz. "It's fine, Sherlock."

_At least allow me to pay for half of it – MH _

John grinned. "It's all fine."


	31. Waking

He was always there. Whenever Sherlock woke up, he'd be there, usually slouched in the hospital chair next to the bed, asleep. Sometimes, he'd remain conscious, determined to see the moment the detective woke up. Either way Sherlock never woke alone, no matter what he'd done.

It had been an extremely tiring day at work, and John was walking along the streets of London and back to Baker Street, having decided that the fresh air would hopefully help him focus. Clearly it wasn't working, for he didn't even notice the black car pull up alongside him and it wasn't until a blinding pain flashed through his skull and he began to sink into darkness, that he knew something was wrong.

* * *

He awoke alone and groggily, a constant pounding in his head bringing him back to awareness. His eyes cracked open, and he immediately bolted upright when he saw his surroundings. _Cabin_, was the first word that came to mind. He was definitely in some sort of cabin. The wooded walls and wooded furniture certainly supported that statement, and the old-fashioned stove suggested somewhere simple and basic. John was sitting on a single bed in the corner of the room, and the wall-length windows let in floods of light. Outside, the only thing that could be viewed was a large expanse of forest. He had absolutely no idea where he was.

The ringing of his phone interrupted his thoughts, and he rummaged in his pocket before drawing it out and moving over to the window.

"Hello?"

"Doctor, good to know you're awake." Mycroft. He should have known.

"What am I doing here? Wherever _here _is." he asked, looking out at the forest again.

"You are in the Black Forest, John. In Ger–"

"Yes, I know it's in Germany." John interrupted, frowning slightly. "_Why _am I in Germany?"

There was a long pause on the line before Mycroft spoke again. "Sherlock has relapsed." he said solemnly.

John closed his eyes. "Shit." he muttered, his mind suddenly trying to figure out where Sherlock was so he could a) see if he was alright, and b) ask him what the bloody hell he thought he was doing.

"Yes, quite." Mycroft answered.

"Then why aren't _you _here, Mycroft?" John hissed, anger seeping into his veins, though he wasn't sure _who_ he was angry with. "You're his brother; shouldn't you be looking after him?"

"As much as I wish I could, do you really think he'll want me there?" Mycroft answered, and John thought he could hear a trace of sadness in the elder Holmes' tone.

John sighed, trying to regain control of his emotions. "Sorry. You're right. I didn't mean to snap."

"It's not your fault, John." Mycroft said, apparently able to hear the doctor's thoughts.

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure. I received a call three nights ago from St. Bart's telling me that he'd been found lying unconscious in an alleyway."

"What did he take?"

Another pause. "Heroin."

John's heart plummeted. "Do you know why?" he asked eventually, cursing Sherlock's stupidity.

"Why he did it? No. It's up to you to find out. I've arranged for the two of you to remain there for six months."

John's jaw dropped, even though no one was there to see it. "_Six_ months? I can't do that, Mycroft. My work–"

"– has been told that instead of Sherlock relapsing, it was your cousin. They understand, and you will still have a job waiting for you when you return. Mrs Hudson has been informed of the situation – an honest account – and I have paid the six month's rent in advance."

"What about Lestrade? Does he know?"

"He's under the impression that Sherlock has been in a serious accident, and has taken some time away from Baker Street to recover. Besides your landlady, no one knows what has really happened."

"Right." John muttered, not knowing what else there was to say.

It was Mycroft's turn to sigh. "I'm sorry, John. He needs you now more than ever."

Because that's why John was there. A shoulder for someone to cry on. A constant presence that calmed and soothed. Because that's all he was good for, apparently.

The phone call disconnected and John was left with a heavy silence. He couldn't believe what Sherlock had done. Had he missed something? Something obvious, that Sherlock would have scoffed at him for not figuring it out. Sherlock hadn't seemed any more depressed than he usually was whenever he fell into a black mood, so had it been something else. John tried to tell himself it wasn't his fault for missing the signs; after all, who better to hide his cravings than Sherlock Holmes?

As if being able to sense where the detective was, he moved across the room and out into the thin corridor. John marched left down the hallway and stopped outside the next door, pausing before entering. Knocking would be useless; the detective was probably still unconscious.

Slowly poking his head around the door, John frowned when he saw the state Sherlock was in. He was hooked up to almost every machine in the room and was as pale as a sheet with dark circles hovering under his eyes. Never before had John seen him look so vulnerable.

"Dear God, Sherlock." John murmured as he dropped into a chair by the bed, placing his head in his hands.

* * *

It was twenty-two hours later when Sherlock eventually awoke. He felt drained, and exhaustion was trying to tug him back to unconsciousness, but he was too curious to know where he was to let himself fall back to sleep.

Opening his eyes, his brows furrowed as he took in the unfamiliar setting of wooded walls, the faint aroma of pine and the bright light that irritated his eyes and seeped in through the windows to illuminate the room. A faint sound of trickling water could be heard from his left, and he stiffly moved his neck to find the source. He immediately wished he hadn't when he saw John stood at a small sink, his back to him, filling a glass with water. When the doctor turned, he started at the sight of Sherlock awake and watching him, before heading back to the bed and offering the cup to him.

Sherlock accepted it gratefully and began to sip at it, studying John as the doctor sat down. It was obvious that the ex-soldier was extremely stressed about the situation for the dark circles under his eyes suggested a long and sleepless night, and the ruffled hair revealed the amount of times John had ran his fingers through it. Not good.

"How do you feel?" John asked. His voice portrayed no emotion, and he watched Sherlock calmly.

"Rough." he croaked, lying back down against the pillow.

John nodded. "I would imagine so." he answered.

There was an uncomfortable silence left between the two, and the detective nervously cleared his throat. He wanted to talk to John, explain his reasons, but something told him that John wasn't in the mood to listen rationally at the moment.

"I'm sorry." he muttered instead.

The doctor nodded again. "I know." he replied.

"It was an accident."

"I know."

"I won't do it again, I promise."

This time there was hesitation before John answered, as if he didn't believe him. "I know, Sherlock." he said softly. "Get some more rest. I'll be here when you wake up."

"Where are we this time?"

"Germany." John answered, scrubbing a hand across his face wearily.

"Oh."

John pursed his lips and reached across to feel Sherlock's forehead, whilst also taking the empty glass from him. He took something from the side table and then placed a cool flannel over the detective's head.

"This should help cool you down a bit." he muttered. "Just call me if you want some more water, or anything to eat." he added.

"Thank you." Sherlock answered earnestly. John smiled slightly in response and headed back over to the sink with the glass, washing it out with water. Sherlock sighed, knowing that John would forgive him quickly for this, especially if he was already back to smiling at the detective. Perhaps this hadn't affected him as much as he'd originally thought.

However, one glance at the mirror above the sink with John's reflection in it quickly dispelled those thoughts. Seeing the look of hurt, betrayal and sheer exhaustion reflected upon John's face made his heart break piece by piece. A sinking feeling in his gut told him that this was going to take a lot of time to fix.

Soon enough John returned with the re-filled glass of water, those emotions now wiped from his face. He set down the glass then sank into the chair again, watching Sherlock drink from it.

When the detective finished he looked across at John. "How long?" he asked.

"Six months." was the hoarse reply. A crack in the mask.

"John–"

"Go to sleep, Sherlock." John interrupted, standing up abruptly whilst avoiding eye contact. "I'll be back soon." He made his way across the room and walked out the door without a second glance at Sherlock.

Never had Sherlock felt guiltier than he did now. True, this had happened before, but never for six months, and never because of heroin. He would have much preferred the angry side of John, rather than this cold and emotionless side. With these thoughts in mind, he drifted off into a troubled sleep.

* * *

Upon awakening again, Sherlock wasn't surprised to notice the darkness that had enshrouded the room. He was surprised, though, to see John asleep in the chair next to him, a hand resting on the edge of the bed. He still looked exhausted, but the worry lines weren't as prominent now. He doubted he wouldn't see a peaceful-looking John again for a few weeks, at least. Sherlock also knew that the only communication to the outside world that they had was through John's phone, though that didn't include Wi-Fi. No television, no radio, no laptop... no blog. Yes, Sherlock was known for getting extremely bored within short periods, but what people didn't know was that it was John who really suffered from boredom.

Being a soldier meant he craved action, but now he could only rely on Sherlock for some excitement. He usually managed to distract himself with the TV or writing in his blog, but now that they were gone Sherlock didn't know how he would cope. He gave the doctor two weeks before things started to get tense, as if they weren't already.

A quiet groan from John caused Sherlock to look at him, and soon the smaller man was slowly waking. His hazel eyes opened, and he rolled his head across towards Sherlock automatically, jerking slightly at the ice-blue eyes that were scrutinising him intensely.

"How do you feel?" John asked instantly.

"Fine." Sherlock answered, wishing the doctor would find something else to say instead of repeatedly enquiring about his health. "What about you?" he added.

"Me? I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm not the one who... well." He coughed nervously, avoiding the rest of the sentence.

"No, you weren't." the detective said quietly, averting his gaze.

"Why did you do it?" John questioned. _Why did you ignore my advice_?

"I'm not sure..." Sherlock trailed off, desperately wanting to avoid this conversation.

John scoffed. "Bullshit, Sherlock. Give me a proper answer."

"I needed a stimulant, John. You know how it is."

"I thought I did. But that's still no excuse."

"I know, and I intend to make it up to you. I won't do it again."

John put his head in his hands. "How do I know that? You promise me every time, and you _always _break it. You can't expect me to be able to trust you so quickly after this, Sherlock." he said quietly.

"John, it would be worrying if you still remained faithful after everything I've put you through." Sherlock said softly. "But this time I mean it when I promise you it won't happen again."

"Those words sound too rehearsed, Sherlock." John retorted, lifting up his head, "They're empty. You're going to have to do a lot more than that to convince me."

"Yes, and I will. You can do whatever you feel necessary regarding my health, and I'll find something else to do when I get bored. Something else to occupy my mind." _Anything, John, as long as you forgive me._

"You and me both, Sherlock" John muttered.

"I know I can rely on you to help me, John. And I'll help you, too. We'll both get through this. We're in the Black Forest, for crying out loud. There must be _something _out there to do." Sherlock said.

"Mmm. Maybe I'll teach you how to fish." John said absent-mindedly.

"Dear God, anything but fishing."

"Bird watching?"

"Be serious."

"Foraging for mushrooms?"

"Honestly? What was your childhood like?"

"What about 'hide and seek'?"

"...I won't rule it out."

John smiled, and Sherlock returned it without hesitation, though he wondered how long it would be before the smiles started to disappear.

* * *

**A/N: For anyone interested, I've continued this chapter as a multi-chapter story, still called 'Waking'. Thank you very much for reviews, follows and favourites x**


	32. X-Ray

_**X-ray:**__ Electromagnetic radiation of short wavelength produced when high-speed electrons strike a solid target._

"Any more, Lucy?" John let go of the intercom and waited for a reply.

"No, you're all done for the day, Doctor Watson. See you tomorrow."

John smiled and stood up from his chair, sliding on his jacket as he did so. He walked out his office and into the waiting room, smiling at the young receptionist as he went by. "Have a good night, Luce. Look after yourself." he said.

Lucy smiled back. "I will, Doctor."

Walking to the doors, John paused with his hand on the handle. Slowly, he spun back around to face the waiting room, then groaned at the lone person sat at the back.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" he asked as he made his way over to the detective.

Sherlock looked up at him. "Waiting for you." He smiled innocently.

"No, you're not. You never come to my work unless you need something. What is it?"

He mumbled something incoherent, causing John to lean closer.

"What?"

Sherlock sighed; obviously annoyed that John hadn't heard him the first time.

"I said I may have broken my left arm." he said.

"Wha– Why have you come here? Why didn't you go to the hospital?"

"Don't need a hospital."

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock, of course you need a hospital. We need to X-ray that arm. Come on." John dragged Sherlock up and propelled him towards the door, casting a now tired-looking smile towards Lucy. She smiled sympathetically.

John hailed a cab and soon enough the two of them were being driven to St. Bart's.

"How did you break it?"

Sherlock was now holding said arm closer to his body. "Fell out of a tree."

"_What_?"

"I fell out of a tree." he said with a scowl.

"What on earth were you doing up in a tree?"

The detective sighed. "The case I'm working on has our killer leaving a message at a crime scene as to where the next murder will be. On the victim's body was written a riddle that – in a nutshell – told me I needed to head east and find a tall building."

"We're in the middle of London." John argued.

"Yes, I know, but it was more specific. It doesn't matter, though. I worked it out and Lestrade has men waiting for the murderer."

"But that still doesn't explain how you fell out of a tree in the first place."

Sherlock coughed. "Well, I needed to get a better view of London, so I climbed up the nearest tree – which happened to be a particularly tall oak – and started mapping out the tall buildings. So consumed was I that I didn't hear Lestrade repeatedly calling my name. He then proceeded to throw a stone at the branch nearest to me, which inevitably made me jump and caused me to fall. I landed on my arm."

"Jesus." John muttered. "You fell out of an oak tree? You must have hurt something else, at least."

"A few ribs might be cracked," John groaned. "It's not that bad. Lestrade forced me to go to the hospital but I refused so he drove me to your clinic and made me wait in that god-awful room."

"But you didn't actually check in."

"No. I didn't want to be there in the first place and it was only because I knew Lestrade was waiting in the car outside that I remained there."

"I thought I saw him..." John said to himself.

"Yes. He's following us now."

"What?" John twisted in his seat, and sure enough, Lestrade was seated in his black car, following closely. The DI gave a cheery wave.

"Why didn't he give us a lift? Would have spared us the cab fare."

"It's not important."

"It is to me. I'm going to be the one who'll end up paying."

Sherlock said nothing, merely sighed a little and shifted. John looked across at him and noted the faint frown and firm lips.

"You're in pain."

"Am I?"

"Yes. You should have said something, you clot. I could have given you some antibiotics."

"It only hurts a little."

"Of course it does. Come here." John leant over and swiftly unwrapped Sherlock's scarf from around his neck. He made to protest but John shushed him and then gently made a make-shift sling for the detective's arm. Sherlock frowned down at it for a few moments before settling back against the seat, relief evident in his face.

"What else hurts? Specifically, and besides your ribs."

"It doesn't matter."

"Sherlock–"

"Did you know your receptionist is in an abusive relationship?"

John sighed. "Yes, I did know. I wouldn't be much of a doctor if I didn't."

"Aren't you doing anything about it?"

"Of course I am. We're working on it. And no, I'm not going to tell you. Now please answer me."

"Nothing else hurts. I'm fine."

"Now why couldn't you have said that in the first place?" John murmured.

A few minutes later and the cab pulled up outside St. Bart's hospital. Sherlock climbed out first, leaving John to pay, and looked around the area in a bored manner. When John joined him, they waited for the third member of their party to arrive.

DI Lestrade wasn't far behind him, and soon the trio were stood out on the pavement.

"Oh, fancy seeing you here, Greg." John said, smiling slightly as they made their way inside.

"Yeah, well I know what this one's like, so I thought it best to wait outside the clinic just in case he did a runner."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as a doctor approached them.

"John?" he said. The man looked to be in his early thirties with thick, dark brown hair. He frowned at the ex-soldier. "You alright?"

"Yeah I'm fine, thanks Tony. My friend Sherlock might have broken his arm, and we came in for an X-ray."

"Oh sure. You can sit in the waiting room while I prepare the X-ray." he smiled at them before heading back the way he came. The trio sat down on the hard plastic chairs, and Sherlock immediately began bouncing his leg up and down impatiently.

"We've been here literally twenty seconds. You can't seriously be telling me you're already bored." John said under his breath.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock muttered back, "there is absolutely no reason for us to be here."

"There is all the reason to be here, Sherlock. Stop arguing with me and sit still."

The detective huffed indignantly, muttering about this situation being "a complete waste of time." John chose to ignore him. Lestrade smirked.

Five minutes later and Tony was stood in front of them again. "If you want to come this way, Mr...?"

"Holmes." John answered as he stood up, dragging Sherlock with him. "It'd probably be best if I came too. He's a little... reluctant."

"It's fine. I'm Doctor Carter, by the way."

"I didn't need to know that." Sherlock answered, strolling past him with John at his heels. The examination room in the X-ray department was a pristine white – as hoped – and a long, bare bed was placed in the middle. A large piece of equipment, presumably the X-ray, hung over the head of the bed.

"So, Mr. Holmes, while you change into this hospital gown, Doctor Watson can explain to me what's happened, and then we'll X-ray your arm."

"No, everywhere." John interrupted. Dr Carter raised an eyebrow in question.

"I wasn't there, and Sherlock tends to lie about his injuries." Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but John beat him to it. "Don't bother arguing, you know it's true." With yet another sigh, the detective snatched the white hospital gown from Dr Carter and moved behind one of the curtains, muttering to himself as he did so.

Dr Carter pulled John aside. "So...?"

"He fell out of a tree."

The doctor blanched. "He fell out of a tree?"

"Yes. An oak tree."

"Why was he in an oak tree in the first place."

"Umm... I'm not _entirely _sure. All I know is that a detective threw a stone at him, causing him to fall."

Dr Carter raised his eyebrows. John grimaced.

"Yes, I know I work with children." he said. Tony smiled at him.

Sherlock re-emerged from the curtain wearing a scowl on his face and the white hospital gown. John grinned despite himself.

"Okay, Sherlock," Dr Carter stepped forward. "If you want to get on the examination bed and then we'll take an X-ray."

"This is stupid."

"Sherlock–" John sighed, but he was interrupted.

"This is the last time I'm telling you I _don't _need an X-ray."

"Just sit down–"

"No. I'm not having one, I'm going home."

"Sit down, Sherlock–"

"No."

"Mr Holmes, the sooner you sit down, the sooner–"

"Oh, don't patronise me, doctor, when it's clear that your wife–"

"Sherlock, SIT DOWN!"

The detective paused, a retort waiting on the tip of his tongue, before he begrudgingly raised himself onto the bed, a large pout on his face.

"Lie down, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock pursed his lips together in annoyance, but a glare from John saw him lying down, the overhead X-ray directly in his line of sight.

"Now, myself and Dr Watson are going to step outside whilst–"

"Yes, I know how an X-ray machine works, doctor."

"Sherlock." John growled. "Behave. And don't even _think _about trying anything." The two doctors made their way outside, a remote in Dr Carter's hand, and they looked away from the room.

"Is he always like this?" Tony asked.

"You have no idea." John sighed.

They walked back in to see Sherlock off the examination table and already behind the curtain and changing. A muffled curse a few minutes later caused John to smile slightly.

"Need any help?" he called.

"Nope. I am – _dammit _– perfectly fine."

"I'll be back in a bit with the results." Doctor Carter said, smiling as he walked out. John moved over to the curtain and poked his head around, trying not to chuckle at the sight in front of him. Sherlock was already wearing his trousers and shoes, and he now had one sleeve of his shirt on and one sleeve off. The detective was practically wandering around in circles in an attempt to feed his injured arm through the sleeve. John smirked and caught Sherlock mid-spin by the shoulders.

"Stand still." he commanded. Surprisingly, Sherlock did as he was told. John gently held his arm and slowly manoeuvred it into the offending sleeve. Sherlock then took a few steps backwards, doing up the buttons of his shirt.

"Do you need help with your blazer?" John asked, holding up the black piece of clothing. The younger man sneered and snatched the blazer from John, who smiled smugly.

"I'm going to get a coffee, because quite frankly, you're exhausting me. Don't annoy Dr Carter when he comes back." The ex-soldier left Sherlock and marched down the many corridors to find Lestrade still sat in the waiting room, though he had gained two polystyrene cups of coffee, as if having read John's mind.

He collapsed into the chair next to Greg and willingly accepted the hot drink.

"How is he?"

"A nightmare. Why did you have to get me involved with this? You could have driven him to the hospital yourself." John said.

"No way. I would have ended up breaking his other arm."

"I doubt it's broken, though."

"Really?"

"Really. When Sherlock isn't being uncooperative, he exaggerates. He's probably just dislocated his shoulder or sprained his arm."

"But he fell out of a tree. A big one, at that."

"I know, but Sherlock wasn't in enough pain as he should have been, and he's not as good at hiding his discomfort as he thinks."

"You know him better than me." Greg said with a sigh, sipping at his drink.

"Most of the time." John muttered.

* * *

An hour later and John and Greg were gently helping an unsteady Sherlock, drugged and exhausted, up the stairs of 221B. He had a sling around his left arm, having confirmed it was only sprained, miraculously, and a few of his ribs had been cracked. John had the detective's right arm around his shoulders, whilst Lestrade ran ahead to open doors. Mrs Hudson, thankfully, was visiting her sister, so there was no landlady fretting about the trio.

Staggering into the living room, John carefully deposited Sherlock onto the sofa, wary of his injured arm. Greg clapped John on the shoulder before taking his leave, though not before saying goodbye to Sherlock, who answered with a "happy birthday!"

"John?"

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked as he tucked a blanket around the detective.

"Where's Mycroft?"

"Probably still at work, knowing him."

"He's always working." Sherlock said sulkily.

John frowned slightly, "Do you wish it were otherwise?" he asked cautiously.

The detective shrugged, yawning instead of answering. "Dunno." he murmured tiredly.

"Alright, then." John smiled and made his way into the kitchen, switching on the kettle and pulling out his mug.

"John."

He sighed. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Play me something on your clarinet, please."

"Wha– How do you know I used to play clarinet?"

"I found out."

"Yes, I'd gathered that. How did you find out?"

"Dunno."

"Of course you don't." John moved over to the detective and gently brushed aside one of his unruly curls, hoping the younger man might become drowsier. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. You'll feel better in the morning."

His eyelids fluttered. "M'not sleepy."

"Okay. Just close your eyes though. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Why, are you going somewhere?" Sherlock became more alert suddenly, struggling to sit up.

"No, no, I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay here." John pressed him back into the sofa, shushing the muttering the detective. He ran a thumb over his pale skin and Sherlock soon began to quieten, his eyes finally closing.

"Don't leave." he murmured, clumsily grasping onto John's sleeve.

"I won't." John smiled as he sat down on the floor, leaning against the couch and chuckling as he felt Sherlock clumsily pat his head, those long fingers remaining in his blond hair as he drifted to sleep. John was not long in following, and when Lestrade returned half an hour later, having forgotten his jacket, he couldn't resist the urge to take a quick photo on his phone before leaving again. He knew a day would come when he'd need to blackmail the arrogant sod, and now he had the perfect material.


	33. Yuletide

_**Yuletide: **__of or pertaining to the Christmas season._

"Why did I take this job?" John groaned as he sat in his armchair, reading his emails from his laptop.

"Because working at the hospital as well as the clinic will provide–"

"It was a rhetorical question, Sherlock." John sighed.

Sherlock looked up from the microscope, frowning. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure." John smiled.

"Oh." he frowned again. "Is this the part where I ask you what's wrong?"

"Spot on."

"See, that's what I thought, but... Oh, right." Sherlock moved away from his microscope and faced John. "What's wrong?"

John smiled, despite himself. "It's nothing Sherlock, I'm just tired."

"I'm not surprised seeing as you're taking two jobs at once. But you're more than tired. You're frustrated, too."

John held his arms up as if to say "go ahead." Finally finding something to stave off his impending boredom, the detective scurried to his armchair and sat opposite John, studying him intently. John put his laptop aside to humour Sherlock.

"It's nearly Christmas." Sherlock stated.

"Well done."

"You're annoyed because you have to work Christmas day."

John sighed. "Yes, I am."

"Why?"

"Because... I won't get to spend time with anyone." he smiled softly, knowing Sherlock wouldn't understand.

"But no one's going to be here."

It was John's turn to frown. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, Mrs Hudson's visiting her sister, and I'm going to be away."

"What? When were you planning on telling me this?"

"I've already told you. Six days ago."

"Six days– I was at my sister's, Sherlock!" John said.

"Well it wasn't my fault."

John ran a hand over his face. "Where are you going then?" he asked.

"When?"

"At Christmas!"

"Oh. I've been forced to spend the week at Mummy's. I still owe Mycroft a favour, so I have no choice but to attend. The whole family is going to be there, which should be... interesting, to say the least."

John hummed in agreement. "So when are you leaving?" he asked.

"The 20th."

"Of December?"

"No, of May, which is when we always celebrate Christmas."

"See, now I don't know if you're joking or not." John said, looking up at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised.

"Of course I'm joking. And yes, I'm leaving on the 20th of December."

"Which happens to be tomorrow."

"...Yes."

John exhaled. "Right. Have you packed yet?"

"Yes, I have. Do I ask you what you have planned now?"

"You don't have to." the doctor smiled, rising from his chair and heading into the kitchen to switch on the kettle. Sherlock followed him and blocked his way to the fridge.

"If you want company so much, why don't you stay with Harriet?"

"I'm not going to spend Christmas day with her." John replied, pushing past Sherlock and getting the milk. "I'm not as stupid as you think, Sherlock, I know she's still drinking and I've had enough, to be honest."

"Won't it be worse if she's alone, though? At Christmas?" The last sentence made the lanky detective sound like a small child who had just found out someone had eaten his cookie.

"It's alright, Clara's agreed to visit and hopefully distract her, so she won't be alone." John prepared two cups of tea and handed one over to Sherlock as he leant against the counter and sipped at his own.

"So what are you going to do at your mother's?" John asked, though half his mind was distracted on the thought of sitting in his armchair on the 25th and sipping at mulled wine in silence. It brought back painful and unwanted memories of previous years when Sherlock wasn't there.

"I doubt we'll do much. Myself, Mycroft and Mummy will probably sit in the drawing room as everyone arrives, I'll have to smile forcefully and shake everyone's hand. Ugh, I bet Aunt Ruby will end up hugging me constantly, though Mycroft was always her favourite. It seems as though Mycroft didn't really want to come either, but I suspect he feels it his duty to keep the family in touch regularly. I just know I'm going to hate it, John."

"My heart goes out to you." the doctor answered with a smile, draining his tea and placing it in the sink, before walking through the sitting room and heading for the stairs. "It really does. Night."

* * *

John awoke early on the 20th, dimly recalling a distant _bang_ being the reason he'd woken at all. He stiffly got out of bed and padded downstairs and into the sitting room.

"Sherlock?" he called, pausing mid-step. It was unusually quiet. He moved down the hallway and paused outside the detective's room. He knocked twice, and then waited. When he knocked a third time, it was with some surprise that he saw the door open against his touch. The bedroom was empty. _He wouldn't have left already, would he?_

Returning back into the sitting room, apparently he would have left already, going by the brief note placed on the coffee table.

_Gone to Holmes Manor. I'll be back on the 28__th__. Don't touch the tongues. – SH._

John grimaced at the thought of tongues hidden somewhere in the flat, before heading into the kitchen and preparing a much needed cup of tea, as well as popping two slices of bread into the toaster. Whilst waiting for the kettle to boil and the toaster to... toast, he sat down at the kitchen table and flicked through the newspaper that lay discarded there. Even though it was yesterday's news, he still continued to read with interest, determined not to let that fact that he was on his own again get to him.

This would have been the first Christmas that John and Sherlock shared after the detective's three year absence. John never liked to reminisce about those three lonely Christmases, namely because the festive season was when he had been at his lowest, consumed with sorrow and solitude and not being bothered to get up and actually _do _something. He'd hated Christmas at the time; he'd never felt so low and pathetic, even recalling those memories now made him wince in humiliation. At least no one knew. Well, Mycroft probably did, but if he did he never mentioned it.

With the cup filled with tea and the toast spread with butter John remained at the table as he consumed his breakfast, still reading the newspaper. He vaguely wondered whether Greg would have the holidays off, but even if he did John wouldn't want to impose at this time, especially as he knew the inspector was trying to patch things up with his wife.

Once his plate was empty, John placed the utensils in the sink, a part of his mind telling him he'll need to wash up soon, and then headed upstairs to change for work. He grabbed his phone on the way up and fired a quick text to Sherlock.

_Enjoy your break and don't get into any trouble. – JW_

* * *

Nothing eventful happened for the next five days. John got up, ate breakfast, had a wash, got changed, went to work, came home, ate dinner and went to bed. That was his routine, and he hated it. Hated waking up at a respectable time instead of three o'clock in the morning. Hated the relatively empty fridge (minus the pot of tongues) instead of the shelves being stacked full of body parts. Hated having to work full time instead of someone swooping into the clinic or the hospital and dragging them out with only a "we haven't got time, John!" as an explanation. It was too familiar. Far too familiar and he would trade anything to have the consulting detective back.

Said consulting detective hadn't said a word for the past week. No text, no email, no annoying blog entry that predicted he'd run out of milk. Now that he thought about it, John actually had plenty of milk in the fridge. His habit nowadays was to pick up two cartons when he went shopping, but now he found the fridge had far too much milk for two men, let alone just John. What on earth did Sherlock do with all the milk?

John had somehow ended up with this thought in his head when he woke up on Christmas morning. With a yawn he reluctantly sat up in his bed, fishing for his phone and checking the time. 8:34AM. _Crap_. His shift at the hospital started in an hour. He really needed to set an alarm some time soon. His daily routine suddenly became a lot faster today. Breakfast. Wash. Change. Work!

Clumsily locking the door to 221B Baker Street, John managed to swiftly hail a cab and soon he was on his way to work. His mind had only just registered the fact that it was Christmas day and he pulled his phone from his pocket, sending a text to Sherlock.

_Merry Christmas. Hope you're behaving – JW_

Outside the pavements were covered in snow and every now and then grit lorries trailed the roads, melting the dangerous ice with salt. Children were outside their house, some throwing snowballs at their siblings whilst others looked up towards the sky with their mouth open, hoping to catch a snowflake or two. The traffic wasn't as bad today, though John hadn't expected it to be, which was great for him. Within fifteen minutes the cab pulled up outside the hospital, and the doctor passed over far more money than he needed to the cabbie, along with a muttered "Merry Christmas."

He'll have to go out tonight, John mused as he decorated a boy's arm with stitches. Maybe he'll contact Mike, or Bill. There must be someone out there who'd want to spend the evening with him. John paused. _Since when did I become so desperate?_ He finished stitching up the boy and gave both him and his mother a smile before they went on their way, already dreading who he'd be treating next. He just wanted this day to be over, and it was only 10:45AM. At least he only had to work half the day, and not spend nine hours rushing about A and E whilst also wondering what Sherlock was doing at that present time.

The day progressed as slow as John knew it would, and he ended up finishing his shift an hour later due to an emergency call that required all hands on deck. Drained and exhausted, John carefully made his way up the few icy steps and unlocked the door to 221B. With a weary sigh he climbed up the long staircase until he was back in the warmth of his living room. He wasted no time in starting a fire underneath the mantlepiece, and ten minutes later he was sat on the floor in front of it with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, having deemed it too cold for tea. He could feel his limbs begin to relax, and for once relished in the silence that encased the flat.

The Christmas tree in the corner was illuminated with fairy lights, and tinsel decorated just about everything in the room. The skull was wearing a Santa's hat, and for some reason mistletoe was hanging from the doorway. _Mrs Hudson_, he accused. _Or Greg. I bet it was Greg. _He'd have to take that down before Sherlock came home, otherwise he'd be plagued with endless questions about the concept of it. Still, he had to smile at the thought.

"So when exactly do we exchange gifts?"

John jumped and turned around to see Sherlock stood near the door, taking off his coat and hanging up his scarf. He raised his eyebrows when he saw John staring at him in shock. The doctor seemed to snap out of his reverie and frowned at him.

"Why are you home so early?" he asked.

"Don't you want me here?"

"No no, it's fine. It's great, even, but why did you leave your mother's?"

"I'm sure they can survive without me." Sherlock said, striding across the room and sitting down on the floor opposite John. "Dealing with Mycroft is enough, I don't know what I was thinking when I eventually agreed to spend my holidays with the entire family. We should have fled the country, instead." he muttered absent-mindedly, gazing into the fire.

"Was it really that bad?" John asked, having returned from the kitchen after making a cup of hot chocolate for Sherlock, who accepted it gratefully.

"You have no idea. Aunt Ruby molested me, as I knew she would." At this, John let out a chuckle. Sherlock slid his gaze over to him, a small smile playing on his lips. "I know she would've absolutely loved you, had you been there. She would have never let you go."

"Soldier, remember?"

"She's tougher than she looks. What do you think these bruises are around my wrists?" Sherlock held out his hands, flinging them in John's face for him to see, causing the doctor to laugh slightly. "It's not funny. I found it a very traumatising experience."

John couldn't stop laughing. The pure relief at having Sherlock with him meant he was finding the whole situation funnier than he would normally. Sherlock watched him incredulously for a few moments before his smile widened and soon he too began to chuckle.

"You missed me that much, hmm?" the detective asked with a smile.

John's smile faltered for a second. "It was only five days." he murmured, not really convincing himself.

"And five days gave me plenty of time to get you this." Sherlock reached behind him and held out a small parcel wrapped in silver paper.

"Sherlock, you didn't have to–"

"And yet Detective Inspector Lestrade begs to differ. He made it quite clear what I needed to do."

"Since when did you listen to Greg?"

"Since he took that infernal photo on his phone."

John smiled, knowing exactly what photo Sherlock was speaking of. "So he blackmailed you into buying me a gift?"

"Something along those lines, yes. Open it." he waved the present in the air and John hesitantly took.

"Wait, I've got you something as well. We can open them at the same time." John quickly snatched the gold parcel from underneath the tree and sat back in front of Sherlock, offering the gift.

"You bought me a present?" Sherlock asked, genuine surprise crossing his face.

"Of course I did. Open it."

Together the two of them slowly unwrapped their gifts. Peeling back the silver paper, John stared at the object before him, before a smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth as he held up the small, crimson-coloured leather bound journal.

"Sherlock," he muttered. "I – it's brilliant, thank you... Sherlock?" He looked up to see the detective gazing down at his present, not paying any attention to the doctor. "You okay?"

"Hmm?" he mumbled, too enthralled by the gift below him. He raised the large magnifying glass up to the light, studying the wooded handle and gold-rimmed glass. Along the handle, a gold and delicate inscription decorated the wood. _Sherlock Holmes_. Simple, yet he could still sense the care and devotion that John had put into it.

"Do you like it?" the ex-soldier asked.

"Like it? It's... fantastic, John. Thank you."

John smiled. "You're welcome, Sherlock. And thank you, too."

"For the journal? It was nothing."

"Not just for the journal," he said softly.

"Then what?"

"For coming home."


	34. Zoothapsis

**A/N: I have **_**Boxerbee **_**to thank for suggesting this word. Also, I should warn you that this chapter is quite dark in comparison to others, and involves minor characters' deaths. It's also a lot longer because I felt there should be more of a plot... and let's face it I just don't want this series to end x**

_**Zoothapsis: **__a premature burial._

Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, eyes closed and palms together, fighting valiantly to stave off the boredom that was looming ever closer. He hadn't had a satisfying case for two days, and he had to admit that he had been impressed with himself that he'd lasted this long.

The brisk ringing of a mobile phone saved him from his depression, and he quickly swung himself from the couch and headed over to the table, looking down at John's phone. Unknown number. _Interesting._

"Hello?" he answered.

"Mr Holmes? Is that you?"

Detective Inspector Dimmock. Why on earth was he calling John? The doctor had been out to the shops, but as he was speaking he could hear the front door open and close.

"Yes, it's me, Inspector. Can I help you?"

"Actually, is Doctor Watson there?"

Sherlock looked up as John entered, who gave him a smile as he moved through to the kitchen and placed the shopping on the table.

"Yes, he's here." John frowned and looked to the detective, clearly knowing the phone call was about him.

"Will you pass me over? I need to speak to him urgently."

Sherlock held out the phone and John moved over to take it, questions gleaming in his eyes. The detective shrugged.

"Hello?" John moved across the room and headed up the stairs as Dimmock spoke. Sherlock heard a pause on the steps when the doctor stopped, and then the footsteps resumed, though at a much slower pace, as if John was listening to every little thing Dimmock was saying.

Left once more to a deafening silence, Sherlock looked about the flat for something to do. Having nothing else to do, he picked up his Stradivarius and began to play a slow melody. No more than five minutes had passed before he felt a vibrating in his pocket and realised that it was now his phone that was ringing.

"Sherlock Holmes." he said, putting the phone to his ear.

"Sherlock, it's Greg. Listen, we need you down here at a crime scene."

"Of course you do. Where are you?"

"The Griffin House Hotel, outside Connaught Street. Listen Sherlock, if you'd rather stay at Baker Street then I completely understand–"

"What? Why would I want to remain here? I'll be there in fifteen minutes." He hung up on Lestrade without giving the DI a chance to explain. _Finally_, a case.

As he shrugged on his coat and scarf, John's heavy and almost reluctant footsteps reverberated as he came down the stairs. When he stopped in the doorway, Sherlock observed that he quite literally looked like hell. He was incredibly pale, and his eyes were empty, those hazel orbs staring lifelessly up at him. His shoulders were slumped, as if he had given up on the world, and he loosely held his mobile in one hand.

Still, the temptation of a new crime scene meant Sherlock ignored his deductions for the moment as he took John by the arms and spun him around to face the stairs.

"Come on, John, Lestrade's waiting for us."

"Sherlock–" he croaked, trying feebly to stay where he was. "I can't–I have to go to–"

"You can do it later. Come on, we're going to be late."

"It's a crime scene; who's waiting for us?" he said without humour.

"Stop being so sarcastic and hurry up."

Surprisingly, John traipsed down the stairs without uttering another word. All through the cab ride too, he didn't say anything; merely stared out of the window.

When they arrived at the Griffin House Hotel, Sherlock clambered out as quickly as he could and headed over to where Lestrade was standing. The DI turned once he saw him, but his expression changed when he noticed John coming towards them.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Greg hissed, glaring at Sherlock.

"He... always comes." he answered with a frown.

"Yes, I know that, but why is he here today? Don't tell me you dragged him along." There was a warning look in his eyes, and Sherlock shifted, looking down at the floor.

"You don't know what's happened, do you?" The DI asked.

"No, I don't. Why, what's going on?"

Lestrade didn't get a chance to tell him, for John appeared next to Sherlock, still looking sullen and gaunt. Greg grimaced and pulled John aside, motioning for Sherlock to go on ahead to the body.

"John, if you don't want to be here then that's absolutely fine–"

The doctor shook his head. "It's alright, Greg," he said quietly, a sad smile playing on his lips. "I need to be distracted, I think. This'll help."

"I understand, but I doubt a dead body is going to help."

John flinched a little and Greg hastily apologised, but he waved him off. "It's fine." John murmured. Lestrade nodded and left him, moving over to where two officers were stood near a patrol car. John walked over to Sherlock, who was crouched over the body of a young woman.

"She's a lawyer." the detective said, knowing John was stood behind him. "Married, two children, aged thirty-five – no, thirty-six – and is having an affair..."

"You look like shit." Sally Donavan strolled up to John and remained next to him, watching Sherlock with a sneer on her face. Anderson sauntered up behind her. "What's the Freak given you now?"

The doctor remained impassive. "Nothing, Sally." he said in a clipped tone.

"You look dead on your feet." Anderson put in, "Who died? Aside from the obvious."

John pursed his lips and didn't say anything.

Having noticed that there was no retort, Sherlock spun on his heels and glanced up at his flatmate, frowning.

"Someone really has died." he muttered. John only gazed back at him, refusing to break eye contact. The detective stood up and slowly moved over, studying every aspect of the small soldier in front of him.

"Family member." he announced, "More than one person, actually. Their deaths have come as a shock, so it wasn't anyone terminally ill or elderly. No extended family, so they were close."

"Sherlock–" John muttered, looking down. Donavan and Anderson were listening intently, finding this gossip fascinating and already making lists of who they were going to tell.

"Your father." Sherlock declared, "It was a car accident. Dead on impact."

"Stop it–"

"And Harriet, too." he raised his eyebrows, almost as if he was surprised. "Though this was a separate death, she wasn't with your father."

"Sherlock, please–" John's voice had reduced to a whisper, though he was ignored.

"Suicide. The most obvious guess would be too much alcohol consumption, but–"

"Your sister was an alcoholic?" Anderson scoffed. "Not surprising, really, if she'd have known her brother associates himself with this Fre–"

It came out of nowhere. A swift right-hook and then Anderson was sprawled across the floor, his hand pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. John was stood over him, breathing heavily and his hands clenched into fists.

Anderson looked up at him, "You think you can get away with that? Why, I could–"

"Anderson!" Lestrade stormed over, glaring at him. "What do you think you're doing?" He didn't give him time to answer. "Get the hell off my crime scene!"

Anderson stood up quickly. "But sir!" he squeaked.

"_Now_." The forensic scientist scurried off.

"You too, Donavan. I don't want to see you here." The sergeant was wise enough not to argue.

Greg faced John, who had calmed somewhat. "Go home, mate." he said gently. "You're clearly exhausted, and no one's blaming you. And don't worry about Anderson."

John smiled his thanks after apologising for making a scene, before leaving to find a cab.

"And you," Lestrade turned on Sherlock. "I will allow you to stay on this case, _but_, you are to go back to Baker Street right now and apologise for what you've done. You were being extremely obnoxious and insensitive, and I don't want you back here until you've sorted things out with John. Now go."

Reluctantly, he walked back to the main road and scanned the area for a cab. He'd gotten everything he already could from the crime scene, so it wasn't too irritating that he'd been forced to leave. Besides, John's case had perked his interest now. _Perhaps I shouldn't call it a case_, he mused as he climbed into the taxi. Nevertheless, he was very curious about the circumstances of the two deaths. They couldn't be a coincidence, could they? _And suddenly it's a murder case?_ Maybe not, but there could certainly be cause and effect. Mr Watson's death caused Harry to commit suicide. But then, how did she come to know about his demise before John?

* * *

These thoughts continued until he stepped out onto Baker Street and slowly made his way up the stairs and into the living room. John was nowhere to be seen, and Sherlock soon worked out that he was up in his room. He hesitantly climbed the second staircase and remained outside John's door, unsure what to do. He gently pushed it open and peered inside to see John stood at the window, his back to the detective. It would have been impossible for John _not _to have heard him, but he made no movement to keep the younger man out.

"John?" he asked, "Are you alright?" Sherlock walked forward and took his position next to the ex-soldier.

"M'fine, Sherlock." he whispered.

"I – er – I'm sorry about earlier, when I made those deductions about your father and also Harriet. I realise I wasn't being very tactful, and I should apologise... Sorry." _Brilliant_.

"S'alright. You didn't know."

Sherlock bit back the retort that was waiting on his lips, and instead opted for a safer question. "When did you find out?"

John took a shaky breath. "I already knew Dad died." he mumbled. "It was last week. Car accident, like you said. He was pulling out of a turning and another vehicle just ploughed into him at 60mph. I'm surprised you hadn't worked it out sooner."

Sherlock was also surprised. Now that he thought about it, John had been quieter this past week, not really arguing with him about experiments or moaning about the fact he doesn't have a girlfriend. He should have picked up on it sooner.

"I found out about Harry's... death this afternoon when I got back from work and bought the shopping. That was why Inspector Dimmock was on the phone." he explained.

Sherlock nodded. He'd already worked that out.

"He wants me to come down to Bart's and make a formal ID on Harry. Mum's too upset to do it, and Dad... well, you know."

The detective remained silent.

"The last conversation I had with him," John continued, "I told him that I never wanted to speak to him again. I had lost my job at the clinic – thanks to you, by the way," he added with a small smile, "and he seemed to leap upon that chance to degrade me. I was so frustrated that I told him to piss off and hung up. Two days later Mum calls telling me he's dead." His voice cracked on the last few words, but he carried on.

"And now Harry." he whispers. "Overdose, so I'm told. Swallowed a bottle of pills then fell asleep. And we didn't exactly part on good terms either."

Sherlock shifted a little, not sure what he was supposed to do in this situation.

John seemed to notice his discomfort. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't exactly your area of expertise, but... I don't know what to do, Sherlock," he whispered, unshed tears brimming in his eyes. "I don't know what to do." It was barely a murmur, but Sherlock still caught it.

"You don't have to do anything, John." he said firmly. "Mycroft can take care of the funerals, and if you think it's necessary we can visit your mother."

"No, she's staying with a friend for a while." he muttered. "Thank you, though." He looked up at Sherlock for the first time that evening, and the detective could see the sheer pain and fear that resided in those hazel irises. The glance was only brief, though, and then John was back to looking out of the window.

"Sleeping will help." Sherlock blurted out. "It's late anyway, and you looked shattered."

The doctor shook his head. "I won't be able to sleep." he mumbled. "I want to be... alone, Sherlock, if that's alright?"

He nodded. "Of course. I'll be downstairs if you need me." He turned and strode across the room, shutting the door behind him. He paused for a few moments, and he soon heard the creak of John's bed as he sat and then a strangled sob, muffled most likely by John's hands, the soldier in him trying to prevent himself from crying. Sherlock unknowingly pressed his ear closer to the door, and he heard more sobs resounding through the room. His heart clenched painfully and he fidgeted on the spot, not having a clue what to do. Did he go downstairs and act like everything was okay, or did he go back into John's room and comfort the man?

His mind made up, Sherlock noiselessly crept back in and moved over to the bed, where John was sat with his head in his hands, his body silently shaking. He sat next to the doctor and gently eased him closer. John rested his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck and attempted to stop the tears as the detective rubbed his arm soothingly, murmuring softly into his ear and trying to calm him.

He had never seen John so out of control of his emotions. True, every now and then he may lose his temper, but even then he did his best to remain calm. What startled Sherlock though was how much John was grieving for his sister. He knew they had never gotten along, and the sad fact was that if the positions had been reversed between the siblings, he doubted Harriet would be as saddened as John was at the moment.

The doctor was quiet now, only sniffing every now and then, and Sherlock had the sneaking suspicion that he would be falling asleep very soon, despite his earlier words. Sure enough, about two minutes later he felt John go completely limp in his grasp as exhaustion finally took its hold. He tenderly manoeuvred his flatmate backwards until he was lying with his head on the pillows and a light blanket thrown over him. He mused that this would be the last time he would see John looking truly peaceful for a few weeks, and he wished there was something he could do about it.

Deciding it was the best option, Sherlock lay down atop the covers of the bed next to John and settled in for a long night. It was likely the doctor would suffer from nightmares tonight, and he had every intention of doing his best to prevent them.

Just as he was drifting to sleep, a buzzing in his pocket alerted him to the fact that he had a text message waiting.

_The funeral practicalities have been taken care of. All John needs to do is turn up. – MH_

_ Thank you – SH_


	35. Zoothapsis II

Sherlock woke at 7:43AM the next morning, and realised something had changed. His brain started to go into overload with the effort of working out what was difference, but when he opened his eyes, he relaxed once he saw the blanket he had placed over John was now lying over him. Frowning, he glanced across at his flatmate to see him still on top of the duvet but he was now lying with one hand resting lightly on his stomach whilst his other arm was folded underneath his pillow. It was a position John often occupied whenever he was distressed and was trying to calm down, and so it became obvious that he had woken from a nightmare sometime during the night. Sherlock scolded himself for remaining asleep.

His thoughts were interrupted, however, when a loud pounding suddenly echoed around the flat. Noticing John stir out of the corner of his eye, he got up from the bed with a curse and hurried down the two flights of stairs and answered the door, ready to yell at whoever was disturbing the doctor from his sleep.

"What?" he hissed when he saw Lestrade stood on the doorstep in front of him. The detective inspector had a concerned and worried look on his face and he spoke in a low tone.

"Dimmock found a note."

"With our lawyer?" Sherlock asked, confused. "How? And what is Dimmock–?"

"No, not the murder victim; the note was found at Miss Watson's house."

A vague sense of surprise enshrouded him. He didn't think Harriet was guilty enough to leave a note to her brother. "And why are you telling me this? John's asleep, miraculously, so I'd be happy to–"

"It's addressed to you." Greg interjected.

"Me?"

"Yes, and it wasn't written by her."

He didn't like where this was going. "You'd better come inside." he said, walking away from Lestrade and heading up the stairs, knowing the DI was following when the door shut and footsteps sounded behind him.

Once inside the living room, he turned and waited for Lestrade to hand over the note, who did so without hesitation. He unfolded the piece of paper and read the note with growing dread.

_Mr Holmes,_

_ Are you impressed with my work? Or have you not figured it out yet? True, the car collision was particularly hard to arrange, but Miss Watson's suicide was a piece of cake. Is this news to you? I sincerely hope it is, for I can only imagine the look of surprise that is crossing your features at this minute. Well, you might as well have the full confession. Yes, I killed George and Harriet Watson, and I enjoyed every minute of it. I decided to spare Mrs Watson's life only because I was pressed for time. I'm very sure I could have thought up something imaginative for her, though. Maybe a house fire._

_ I digress. I'm certain I've got your attention by now, so I'm going to take this opportunity to tell you that you're making a big mistake regarding John Watson. He's ordinary, stupid. I can't understand why you've chosen to work with him, of all people. You should be working with someone who can improve you, someone like me. You're probably calling me insane as you read this, but that's alright. Nobody's perfect and perhaps I do have some... quirky personality traits. I'm sure you'll come to appreciate them in the near future._

_ And this is the part where I threaten you. Because I am not a man to be toyed with, Mr Holmes. Oh no. Either you join me, or a worse fate will befall the good doctor. That is, if he hasn't already been driven away by what you've done. Admit it; this is partly your fault. If you'd have let the little soldier carry on as he was and dismiss him, no harm would have come to his family. I doubt he's going to be very pleased when he figures it out – if he figures it out, that is._

_ You have three days, Sherlock, before I take serious action. I'm sure you can find your own way of contacting me, and I look forward to your call._

"He barking mad." Greg said vehemently when he saw Sherlock had finished. "Completely insane. And a bloody psychopath." The detective remained silent. "As if John hasn't got enough on his plate."

"John won't find out." Sherlock said quietly, placing the note on the table and sinking down into his chair.

"What are you talking about? He needs to know!"

"No, he doesn't. We can keep this quiet. I can find this man – well, I'm assuming it's a man, seems the most likely."

Greg frowned. "Sherlock, you're being ridiculous. We've just found out John's father and sister have been murdered. He's going to be furious if we don't say anything and he finds out. We can't keep him in the dark about this."

"We can and we will." he said defiantly, "Lestrade, I swear to you, this is for John's sake. This will tip him over the edge if he knew."

"He's stronger than you think. He's a soldier, for crying out loud. He deserves to know." Greg argued.

"Know what?"

John stood in the doorway, watching the pair with a confused expression. He still looked pale and generally saddened, but at least he wasn't talking in whispers anymore. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, who stood up hastily and open and shut his mouth like a fish, looking for something, _anything_ to say.

"Know that... Sherlock is dating Molly." Greg blurted out.

John's mouth fell open. "You – you're out with Molly?" he asked.

"I – ahem – yes, I am."

"Since when?"

"Since yesterday."

John frowned. "You didn't see her yesterday."

"I texted her."

"Why didn't you want to tell me?"

"Because... of everything that's happened. I didn't think it was important."

"Oh. Thanks... I guess." he moved through to the kitchen and flicked on the kettle, preparing two cups of tea. "You staying, Greg?" he asked, his hand hovering above a third cup.

"No thanks, I've got to get back to work." he answered avoiding the glare Sherlock was shooting at him. He met the gaze and smiled. "See you two later." he said.

"_Tell him_." Greg went on to mouth at Sherlock.

"_No. Leave._" the detective shot back.

"_Fine. It's your problem_." With that, he turned and left the flat.

Sherlock sat back down in his chair. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

John smiled slightly as he came back into the living room, passing over a cuppa and settling into his own chair. "Better, thanks. And... sorry. About last night. I didn't mean to lose control like that."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine, John. You're not to blame."

"Mycroft texted me." the doctor continued. "The funeral's in three days, for both Dad and Harry. He's offered to pay for the service."

"Nice of him." Sherlock muttered into his cup.

"Will you be coming?" John asked.

"To the funeral? Do you really want me there?"

"If you wanted to, then you're welcome to come." John answered. "If you don't though, then that's also fine." he added as an afterthought.

Sherlock pursed his lips in consideration. "I doubt I'd enjoy myself." he said slowly.

"I don't think you're supposed to enjoy funerals." John said with a frown.

"No, that's not what I meant. It's just that I probably won't be the best person to have around. And besides, your mother is going to be there, so I'd guess you'll want to be with her."

John looked like he was going to disagree, but didn't say anything. "She probably will be clinging to me all afternoon." he muttered.

"All the more reason for me not to go." Sherlock clarified, rising from his chair and placing his cup in the sink, then moving to sit at the kitchen table and fiddle with the lab equipment. John didn't answer and instead got up to fetch his laptop which was residing on the coffee table. He paused when he noticed a piece of paper that hadn't been there before, and with a backward glance at Sherlock, who was immersed in his microscope, he absentmindedly put down his cup and picked up the paper. He began to frown when he saw it was a note to Sherlock, and contemplated putting it back as it probably wasn't his business, but curiosity got the better of him when he noticed his surname mentioned in the top paragraph.

Sherlock finished jotting down a quick sentence about the specimen underneath the microscope and got up from his chair, making his way into the living room to fire off a text to Lestrade. He froze in the doorway, however, when he saw John stood near the table reading the note left by his family's killer with a deep frown on his face. How the hell could he have been so stupid, leaving the piece of paper on the table? What the hell had he been thinking?

Nothing, apparently.

When he finished reading, John glanced up at Sherlock, confusion and anger glistening in his eyes. "What is this, Sherlock?" he asked quietly.

"A note from someone to me."

John looked down at the note, "And that _someone_ has confessed to killing my sister and father." It wasn't a question, so Sherlock didn't grace it with an answer.

"When were you going to tell me?" the doctor continued.

Sherlock cleared his throat but said nothing, glancing down at the floor.

"Sherlock?" John prompted.

"I wasn't." he answered finally. "I didn't think it was anything that concerned you."

"Of course it concerns me, Sherlock; this person is responsible for Harry's and Dad's death! How could you think you'd get away with keeping this quiet?" He waved the offending piece of paper in the air.

"If I apprehended them before you found out then it wouldn't have made any difference." Sherlock said calmly, but he was cut off.

"Wouldn't have– It would have made all the difference! I would have continued to think that Harry had killed herself for whatever reason, and I would never know!" John's voice had risen to a shout by now, but he couldn't care less. He couldn't understand why Sherlock had felt the need to not let John know about this.

"John, there's no need to shout–"

"There is every need to shout because you can't seem to get it into your thick skull the fact that I don't want you keeping me in the dark anymore! We've discussed this repeatedly, and yet you've still felt the need to do what you think needs to be done and not consult me on the matter. And this involves my _family_! Can't you understand that? The last time you shut me out you ended up–" The doctor stopped himself from finishing that sentence and instead took a long and shaky breath, closing his eyes as he tried to calm himself.

"I didn't tell you for your own good." Sherlock said slowly, a familiar sense of déjà vu washing over him.

John had dropped into Sherlock's armchair and had his head in his hands. "That's what you said last time, but it still doesn't explain things." he said.

"If you knew, I thought it would only go and make things worse." Sherlock said slowly.

"Things can't get any worse." the doctor murmured, rubbing at his eyes.

"...I'm sorry."

John sighed as a response but remained silent. "Who else knows?" he asked.

"Lestrade. That's it." Sherlock answered.

John nodded gradually, remaining silent.

"He told me that the note was found next to the bo–your sister. It was written by a man, rich, used to getting what he wants, and very naive." Sherlock's tone took on the one he used when stating facts about cases. "I would say an only child and was spoilt during early years. He's probably in his late thirties nowadays and unemployed – he has the money to remain comfortably without a job. It is likely he's received help committing the murders, as I doubt he's had much experience in this area." As he spoke he moved over to the doorway and started putting on his coat. "We'll go to Bart's and see what Molly has for us. There may be DNA samples, because it's likely our guy has made a mistake, but we'll have to see."

Sherlock began to trot down the stairs, but paused halfway when silence reigned throughout the flat. Hesitantly, he walked back up and stopped next to the door, looking sympathetically at the doctor before him.

John still had his head in his hands and was breathing slowly, clearly still trying to soothe himself.

"John?" he asked gently, stepping forwards until he was crouched in front of him. He tentatively placed his hands on his flatmate's knees and tried to peer into his eyes in order to gauge some sort of reaction.

"Three days," John murmured. "The note said he'd take action in three days."

"Yes." Sherlock answered.

"The funeral's in three days."

"I'm aware..." he said uncertainly.

"My mother is going to be there. What if he...?"

"Nothing's going to happen, John." Sherlock said firmly, squeezing his knees. "I'll do everything I can to stop him. We'll beat him, don't worry. He'll make a mistake, and then we'll have him, I promise you that. Everything's going to be fine."


	36. Zoothapsis III

It seemed their killer was better at this then Sherlock had first thought. No DNA had shown up at the crime scene, and nobody had seen anything out of the ordinary the night Harriet Watson died. It was infuriating. This man was supposed to be inexperienced at this and yet there was absolutely nothing for Sherlock to go on; it was as if he had disappeared and all Sherlock could do was wait for him to make a move, which the detective had not enjoyed doing one bit.

John had been even worse. During the days leading up to the funeral, he had been tense and on edge ever since Sherlock had informed him there was no information on his sister and father's killer. He had not spoken much, and Sherlock could see the fear and worry that gleamed in his eyes.

On the morning of the funeral John was up at 7:30AM and was already getting ready, despite the processions starting at 11AM. He was on auto-pilot – get up, bathroom, breakfast, tea, get dressed. Currently, he was stood in the living room, smoothing down his suit and fixing his black tie in the mirror.

"You're up early." Sherlock said from the hallway as he moved into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. He leant against the kitchen counter and regarded the doctor, noting the stiffness in his shoulders and the way he flexed his left hand every now and then. Sherlock himself was still in his pyjamas, barefoot and his crimson robe hanging off his thin shoulders.

"Not really. And it's better than sleeping in." was John's curt response.

_Fair point._ "You do realise that–"

"The funeral starts in three and a half hours? Yes."

"Right." The kettle finished boiling at that moment, and Sherlock quickly prepared his own cup of tea, grateful for the distraction.

John could sense his unease, and sighed once he finished with his tie. He turned to the detective. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I doubt I'm going to be very conversational today."

"It's fine." Sherlock answered.

John nodded slightly. "No word from Greg?" he asked.

"Nothing. But John, the killer may not even know about the funeral. How could he?"

"It's likely, Sherlock. Dad's funeral was prepared two days after he died, five days before Harry was killed. It's entirely possible he knows, and I'm not going to take that chance." As he spoke, Sherlock noticed him tuck his gun into his waistband.

"I suppose you'll be wanting backup, then." he said.

John paused, then looked up at his flatmate. "You're coming?" he asked hesitantly.

"If you are alright with that."

John's face broke into a smile. "It's fine, Sherlock. Thank you."

"Mycroft will most probably be there, too." he sniffed.

"Really?" The doctor raised his eyebrows. "That's nice of him."

Sherlock didn't reply, instead sipped at his tea and watched John pace about the flat again, looking for something to do.

"Whereabouts is the funeral?"

"City of London Cemetery and Crematorium. In Aldersbrook."

"I know where it is." Sherlock retorted sharply, then realised himself. "Sorry." he added.

John shook his head. "I'm not fragile, Sherlock. You don't need to watch what you're saying. If anything it's a relief from all the sympathetic looks I've been getting. Just be you. But not when you're around Mum." he added with a small smile.

"Hmm. You know nothing good ever happens when you put on a suit." he commented. John stopped pacing, partly surprised at the sudden change in conversation, and also slightly worried about what his friend was implying.

"That's not entirely reassuring, Sherlock. What do you mean?"

"Well there was one time when you were getting ready to go to Harriet's wedding. My client insulted you and you threatened to punch him in the nose..."

"That was reasonable."

"Then there was your parents' anniversary, when your Dad punched _you _in the nose..."

"That was not so reasonable."

"And after that there was the day we had to find an assassin at Number 10, and you ended up with a knife in your leg."

"Definitely unreasonable." John nodded slightly to himself, clearly reliving the moment. He shuddered and then came back to the present. "Well it can't get any worse, can it?"

"I hope not." Sherlock agreed. "Do you want to leave now?"

"It's fine with me but you're still in your pyjamas."

The younger man glanced down, and then looked back up sheepishly. "Be back in a minute."

* * *

It had taken forty minutes for Sherlock and John to reach the graveyard in one of Mycroft's cars. Mycroft himself was standing outside the grand entrance, wearing one of his three-piece suits, though in black and without an umbrella. When the two got out, Mycroft moved over and shook John's hand, who returned it strongly before moving past him and into the graveyard towards the chapel. Sherlock locked eyes with his brother and nodded once, the elder Holmes returning the gesture solemnly.

Together, the three of them slowly made their way towards the small chapel located in the grounds. Sherlock walked on John's left, with Mycroft on his right.

"The cemetery is completely surrounded, John." he said confidently. "No one we don't know will be able to get in, and even _if _they do, they most certainly won't get out."

John nodded. "Thank you, Mycroft. I really appreciate it."

"It's no trouble."

Upon arriving, John was surprised to see his mother and Mike Stamford standing outside the chapel chatting to each other. Mike was wearing a simple black suit, whilst Ruth Watson wore a short, slim dress which was both flattering yet simple. She also had black tights on, and a thin shawl around her shoulders. John didn't think they'd be here so early, but he wasn't complaining.

When the two spotted them, Mike subtly slipped inside the chapel to give them some privacy whilst Mrs Watson smiled sadly at them as they approached.

John stepped forward and embraced his mother warmly. "How are you?" he murmured.

"I'm coping. You don't need to worry, dear." She moved back and cupped his cheek, sad eyes looking across at him. "Are you well?" she asked.

"I'm fine." he answered with a smile. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek before stepping aside.

"Mum, you remember Sherlock?" he said, glancing at the detective.

"Of course I do. Thank you so much for coming, honey." Sherlock walked forward and accepted her open arms, stooping slightly so that she could see over his shoulder.

"I'm sorry for your loss." he said quietly. They broke apart but Mrs Watson held onto Sherlock's lapels, smoothing down his suit absentmindedly.

"So handsome." she mumbled, brushing aside Sherlock's previous comment. "All three of you look wonderful." She looked over to Mycroft as Sherlock stood next to John.

"This is Mycroft Holmes, Mum. He kindly arranged the funeral." John said.

"Oh, sweetie, you didn't have to do that."

"It was the least I could do, Mrs Watson." Mycroft answered softly. "My condolences, as well. They'll be in our prayers."

Tears were glistening in her eyes as Mrs Watson stepped towards him and silently pulled him into a hug. At first, the government official tensed and John fidgeted slightly, ready to take his Mum off him if need be, but then the elder Holmes relaxed a little and wrapped his arms around her waist, murmuring soothingly as she began to sob into his suit. Mycroft made eye contact with John and the doctor moved forward, gently extracting his mother's grip from Mycroft and transferring her to him. She wound her arms around her son's neck and John rubbed her back comfortingly, whispering into her ear in an attempt to calm her down.

Sherlock cleared his throat and John met his eyes over his mother's shoulder. The detective inclined his head towards the empty chapel, and John nodded understandingly. Sherlock wandered towards the building with Mycroft alongside him, leaving the grieving mother and son outside.

"I'm surprised you handled that so well, Mycroft." Sherlock muttered as they slid along the back bench and sat down. "You were never that emotional with our mother."

"Are you really going to do this today, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked with a sigh. "Your friend is mourning. Give it a rest and just be there for John." he said.

Sherlock didn't answer, merely watched Mike Stamford with sharp eyes as he came over to them and sat next to him.

"Sherlock," he shook the detective's hand. "I didn't think you'd be here. Did you know Harry, or George?" he asked with a curious smile.

"I met both of them once." he answered. "John has invited me to come today."

"Oh, right. It's just that I didn't think you'd _want _to be here." Mike said uncertainly.

Sherlock shrugged. "I had nothing better to do." he said.

Mike raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Okay, well I'll see you later." was all he said, before he got up, bidding both Sherlock and Mycroft a goodbye before going back outside.

"Wrong answer." Mycroft murmured when they were left alone.

Sherlock looked across at him. "Would you rather I told him we were looking for Harriet and George Watson's killer, who might also make an attempt on Mrs. Watson today?"

"Well no, but I'm sure you could have come up with something a little smoother."

"Just leave it, Mycroft."

Within the hour, more people began to arrive, all dressed in black naturally, and Sherlock and Mycroft remained at the back as they filed into the small chapel. John and Mrs. Watson were the last to come in, and the doctor caught Sherlock's eye as he moved towards the front of the pews and sat down.

The ceremony was relatively short. John had been asked to give the eulogy, and although his relationship with his father and sister had been rocky at best, he still agreed to do it. The speech had been emotional and compassionate, sometimes receiving chuckles from the other guests and leaving them teary-eyed at the end. Sherlock could only imagine what the good doctor had said at his own 'funeral', and if it was anything compared to the one he had just given, he knew he most certainly hadn't deserved such a heart-wrenching eulogy.

Once John had sat back down, everybody was directed outside and began to head towards the two gravesites that were a five minute walk from the chapel and were situated side by side. It had begun to rain lightly as Mrs Watson clutched onto Mycroft's arm and walked ahead of the group with Mike whilst John lingered back and wandered with Sherlock.

"That was a very good eulogy." the detective said.

John smiled slightly. "Thanks, I would've hoped so. I had plenty of time to prepare it, after all."

Sherlock smirked in agreement. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

John frowned. "You seriously want to know?" he questioned with a hint of amusement.

He shrugged. "There's not much else to talk about. Unless you'd rather discuss the rent."

The doctor chuckled. "I'm alright." he answered. "I don't think Mum's doing so well, though. Mike's told me she's been more and more isolated ever since Dad died. He said when she was informed of Harry's death she just avoided seeing anyone. I should have visited her." he added.

"Nonsense, you were grieving, too."

"I could have called her, at least. I was too caught up in my own problems to even think what she must have been going through."

"John, stop blaming yourself. You're both suffering, and no one is at fault here except our killer."

"Keep your voice down." John muttered as a few people turned back to look at them with frowns on their faces. "Still no sign of him, then?"

"Nope. It doesn't really help that we have no clue as to his appearance or identity."

"We'll get him." John said. "One way or another."

The group reached the gravesite and John parted with Sherlock to stand next to his mother. A vicar stood at the head of the two coffins and began to say something, but Sherlock had zoned out and was scanning the small crowd for any signs of their killer. He wasn't entirely sure what exactly it was he was looking for, but he was certain he'd know when he saw it. He noticed Mycroft stand beside him, and for once was grateful he had an extra set of eyes to watch out for things.

A sudden vibration in his pocket startled him, and he quickly pulled out his phone to read the message. His face paled and he wordlessly handed the phone over to Mycroft.

_Retrace your steps and we can have a little chat._

The two brothers glanced at each other before silently agreeing to investigate together. Sherlock could see John over the heads of other people, and he could see him standing close to the vicar with one arm around a sniffling Mrs. Watson. He hadn't noticed the two of them begin to edge away, and Sherlock was confident that by the time he did notice, he wouldn't know where exactly they'd gone.

With that thought in mind, Sherlock and Mycroft hurried back to the chapel, the elder Holmes retrieving his own phone and firing off texts to hired guns, ensuring that nothing would go wrong.

They reached the chapel fairly quickly, and Sherlock wasted no time in entering slowly; instead he crashed through the doors and instantly scanned the area for any threat. Mycroft wasn't far behind him and he could see his brother also examine their surroundings too.

Nothing leapt out at them, which was both reassuring and worrying at the same time. The two of them moved forward slowly, straining their ears for any sounds and watching for any sudden movements, until it dawned on them that nobody was there.

Their realisation came too late, and as Sherlock and Mycroft began to turn around, a loud _bang_ propelled them forwards, but they weren't quick enough to stop the large doors from slamming in their faces. Sherlock grasped the handles and frantically tugged at them, trying with all his might to open the barricades, but nothing would give. Mycroft had his phone out again, and was furiously talking to someone on the other line, telling them to send men both to the chapel and the gravesite.

The minute he hung up, two piercing _cracks_ echoed from outside, and Sherlock and Mycroft paled when they recognised the unmistakeable sounds of gunshots.


	37. Zoothapsis IV

Sherlock feverishly pounded his fists against the doors in the hopes that perhaps someone might hear them, but he knew it was to no avail. He continued to rattle the small handles, but nothing gave. Outside he could hear people shouting and screaming in the wake of the gunshots, and his heart was thumping painfully loud in his ears, reminding him of the gravity of the situation.

Mycroft had finished his phone conversation by now and had joined Sherlock by the doors, though he merely stared at them, as if silently commanding them to open.

"Did you bring a gun?" he asked. "You could shoot the locks out."

The detective shook his head. "John's the one with the gun." he said. "We can't kick them in, they're too strong." he muttered. "There must be _something_."

"Sherlock, there must be a side-entrance." Mycroft said as he quickly turned around and began to scan the walls for something, anything.

"Over there!" Sherlock pointed to the left and ran over to the small door, wrenching it open with more force than necessary and sprinting back down the path towards the two gravesites with Mycroft right behind him.

"Where the _hell_ are your men, Mycroft?" Sherlock shouted as they continued to run closer to the yells and cries.

"I can't say for sure."

"That's not really helping us, is it?"

"Sherlock, I'm just as furious as you are, if not more." Mycroft growled.

After what seemed like forever, they reached the gravesites to a scene of carnage. People dressed in black were running out of the cemetery, whilst others remained where they were and were either calling their loved ones or phoning for the emergency services. Amidst the chaos, Sherlock could pick out Mike Stamford leaning over a body lying unconscious on the ground, and as his pace increased as he neared he identified the person as Ruth Watson. Mike had his hands pressed against Mrs. Watson's abdomen and was trying his best to staunch the flow of blood leaking from her.

Sherlock dropped down opposite Mike. "What happened?" he demanded, Mycroft standing behind him and watching intently.

"I'm not sure." he answered, not looking up from Mrs. Watson. "One minute, we were all standing around the two coffins, and the next there were two gunshots and Ruth just dropped without a word."

"Where's John?"

"He ran off in that direction." Mike inclined his head to the left. "I don't know, I guess he must have seen someone and he sprinted after them without a word, even with a leg wound."

"What?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"Yeah, the other bullet went straight through his leg. He was on the floor for a few moments and then he was up again and chasing someone."

"Did you see who it was?"  
Mike shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I was too concerned with Ruth."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course."

"John?" A faint whisper from Mrs. Watson and then her eyes were fluttering open.

"No, Mrs. Watson, it's me, Mike. And Sherlock." he added.

"Sh'lock?"

"I'm right here." he said a little uncomfortably.

"Where's John? Is he alright?" she asked quietly.

"We're trying to find him, don't worry."

"Don' let him get hurt, please."

"I won't, I promise." A sudden memory of a conversation between himself and John three days ago flashed through his head.

_"My mother is going to be there. What if he...?"_

_ "Nothing's going to happen, John... I promise you... Everything's going to be fine."_

Guilt wracked through him as he looked down at the dying figure of Ruth Watson, not having a clue as to how to make this whole thing better.

"Look after him," she muttered, eyes beginning to close. "He needs you."

"I need him too." he answered softly.

"Go." she smiled, her voice barely a whisper. "Find him."

She needn't say any more. With a brief squeeze to her hand, Sherlock was up and running in the direction Mike had indicated earlier. He knew Mycroft was quickly striding after him, but his pace had slowed due to a phone call that he was currently listening to.

Sherlock paid no attention to his brother, instead focused on finding John as quickly as possible, before anything happened. As he ran, he persistently cursed himself for being so foolish. _Of course he wasn't going to meet you in that damned church. He's not _that _stupid_. He should've let Mycroft send one of his men to investigate. He should've brought a gun with him. He should've stayed with John.

His running had dwindled to a quick jog by now and he had been going for about fifteen minutes as he scanned the trees for any signs of his blogger. He was beginning to worry slightly when suddenly a voice spoke to him from his left.

"Your little doctor is stronger than he looks. The bastard nearly knocked me out."

Sherlock froze and watched as a man about his height stepped from underneath a tree and stood a few paces in front of him. He was wearing a pinstripe suit with a white tie and gazing at Sherlock with a small smile on his face. _Rich_, was the first word that came to mind, though the detective knew that already. He had bleach blond hair that was cut short and his smile could most probably make the ladies swoon. This was definitely the man behind that malicious note.

"He has that effect." Sherlock answered carefully. "Most underestimate him greatly."

"Hear, hear." the man said. "Clipped me right above the eye with his gun." he turned and nodded to where the weapon lay a few feet behind him.

Sherlock had noticed the wound. Indeed, a steady trickle of blood was running down the right-hand side of the killer's face, but the man paid no attention to it. All of his attention was focused on Sherlock.

"I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage." Sherlock said. "You know my name, but I do not know yours."

"Jack Reed, at your service." he said. "I've already had the pleasure of meeting your little pet."

"Where is he?" Sherlock asked.

Jack shrugged. "I had some friends take him away from me. It was quite easy once the chloroform had kicked in. I doubt you'll be able to find him, though."

"We're in a cemetery; I've got a pretty good idea." As he spoke, he knew what he was saying was true, and a sense of dread overwhelmed in.

"Still, there are plenty of spaces in the ground. It isn't as easy as you make it out to be."

"Oh but it is. I've simply got to look for freshly dug earth and then I'm there."

"You have to find it first, though." Jack countered. "And by the time you do it'll probably be too late."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"I'm getting rid of all the extra baggage you're carrying so you can come and work with me."

"But why kill John's family? Why not just kill him?" He hated himself for saying it, but it had been nagging at him for a while.

"I was hoping that by murdering them, it'll drive him away from you. I bet it nearly worked, too." he grinned.

_"John, there's no need to shout–"_

_ "There is every need to shout because you can't seem to get it into your thick skull the fact that I don't want you keeping me in the dark anymore!... Can't you understand that?... The last time you shut me out you ended up–"_

Sherlock blinked back the flashback and focused back on Jack Reed, whose smile had grown somewhat in the last thirty seconds.

"I'm never going to join you, you must know that."

"It seemed the most likely outcome, but then perhaps you should know that if you don't join me, your pet will die."

"How do I know he's not already dead?"  
"You don't, you'll just have to take my word that he's not."

"Well 'your word' isn't looking one hundred percent trustworthy at the moment." Sherlock retorted.

"We can stand and banter as long as you like, Sherlock, but this isn't helping your little lapdog. That leg wound was deep, and a man can only go without oxygen for so long–"

Before he had a chance to finish his sentence, Sherlock had slammed him against the nearest tree, one of his arms pressing deeply into the killer's throat.

"Too true." Sherlock snarled. "Shall we see how long you last?"

Reed flailed and clutched at Sherlock's arm, but the detective didn't relent.

"Tell me where John is, or I will kill you without a second thought. I am more than willing."

"You wouldn't." Reed wheezed. "If you kill me, you'll never find him."

"Maybe I won't kill you straight away. I could squeeze until you're unconscious, wait for you to wake up, and then start the whole process again until you give. Believe me, most men cave quicker than you'd think. Either that or I could hand you over to my brother. And you _really _don't want that, I tell you."

"Alright, fine! I'll tell you." he cried. Sherlock didn't lessen his grip, merely waited for the killer to continue.

"He's... he's buried... next to you..." Reed was beginning to choke, and Sherlock released some pressure, allowing him to breathe a little better.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Tell me!"

Sherlock didn't get a chance to say anything else because Reed had suddenly pulled a silver Glock from behind him and swung it at Sherlock's face. Surprised, the detective stumbled back and Reed took advantage of this, stepping forward and swinging it again, apparently not bothering to fire it. The butt of the gun hit Sherlock on the side of the temple, and he fell to the ground, groaning when he pressed a hand to his head and felt the sticky blood trickling down his face. He looked up and sighed when he saw Reed towering over him with his gun pointed directly at his head.

"You're going to kill me, just like that? After everything you've done to attract my attention, and now you've decided to kill me as well?"

Reed smiled softly, "If I can't have you, no one can."

"You won't be able to do it." Sherlock said surely.

The man laughed. "I've never met anyone who can be so cold-hearted when it comes to killing people than me, Sherlock, and I'd be very surprised if you have."

There was no time for him to pull the trigger, however, when a deafening _crack _sounded through the cemetery. Jack Reed gasped and glared down at the mass of blood staining the front of his suit, before he dropped to the ground next to Sherlock with a whimper.

Sherlock glanced up to see Mycroft stood a few feet away, aiming John's smoking gun at the spot where Reed had been moments ago.

The detective smirked and then stood up, looking down at Reed with disgust. "You haven't met my brother." he growled.

"Sherlock!" Frowning, he turned to see Detective Inspector Lestrade running over to him with a few men in tow.

He turned to Mycroft. "Did you call him?" he asked.

Mycroft nodded, "I felt we'd need all the help we could get." he said.

"What's going on?" Greg reached the pair and looked down at the gurgling man on the floor. "Who's this?"

"Our killer." Sherlock answered.

Greg raised his eyebrows. "The man who murdered Mr. Watson and Harriet?"

"Yes, that's him."

"Take him away." he said coldly to the two sergeants stood behind him. They complied and dragged Reed off into the trees, presumably to a patrol car.

"I'm not even going to ask who killed him, because frankly I don't care." Lestrade muttered.

"Good, because we don't have time for that." Sherlock said.

"Did he say where John was?" Mycroft asked.

"John's missing?" Lestrade butted in, a concerned look on his face. "For how long?"

Mycroft glanced at his watch. "Around half an hour, Inspector. As Sherlock said, we really mustn't waste time."

"No, of course not." he agreed. "Have you any idea where he is?"

Both Greg and Mycroft looked to Sherlock, who furrowed his brow slightly.

"Reed wasn't very specific when he told me; only said he's buried next to me."

Lestrade looked ill when Sherlock said "buried", but he didn't say anything.

"Anything else?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock shook his head. "Well, it's better than nothing, I suppose. I'll set up a search immediately." He pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket and began to walk away, but Lestrade grabbed his arm.

"Wait, you two haven't worked it out?" he asked with a frown.

"I'm not actually buried, in case you hadn't noticed." Sherlock retorted.

"No, but you were." Greg said, waiting for it to click, and also slightly gleeful that he was one up on the two Holmeses. The feeling didn't last very long, though.

"What do you mean, "I was"? I've – _oh_." Sherlock froze and glanced at Mycroft, who understood straight away.

"You've never taken it down, have you?" the detective asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "There's never been a reason to."

"Did you bring shovels?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

"To a funeral? No. But I'll get someone to, don't worry."

"Good. We need to go, _now_." As Greg made a phone call, the three of them began to run in the direction of Sherlock's grave.

Sherlock had never seen it up close, apart from the one time where he'd followed John a few days after his jump. He'd never had any reason to see it, and even if he wanted to it had been too risky. He could understand why John had been buried next to his grave, and he really didn't appreciate the sentiment.

They rounded a corner and soon the sleek black grave could be seen amongst the scattered trees. Sherlock instinctively increased his pace, and both Mycroft and Greg were not far behind him, running as fast as they could to the patch of freshly dug earth that could be seen clearly.

When they reached the grave, it soon dawned on them that they couldn't actually _do _anything. Digging through the dirt with their hands would be fruitless and time-consuming; time that they didn't have. All they could do was wait.

"What's taking your men so long, Lestrade?" Sherlock growled, pacing up and down restlessly.

"We're ahead of them, Sherlock, it'll take a while for them to catch up." Greg said calmly.

"We don't have a while!" he shouted.

"Sherlock, calm down! Yelling isn't going to help John, is it?" Mycroft snapped.

"Standing here isn't going to help him either!"

"Well, what do you suggest we do?"

Sherlock sighed, defeated. "I don't know." he murmured. "He's – he's _right there_, Mycroft." he gestured to the ground as he spoke.

"I know," the government official said softly. "I know, and I hate it just as much as you do, Sherlock, but this is out of our hands."

"I hate it too." Greg muttered, looking about the cemetery anxiously.

"If he dies... and we're stood here..."

"He's not going to die, Sherlock." Greg said firmly, "Don't say that, alright? He'll be fine, he always is. He'll pull through, I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep." Sherlock whispered.

"_Everything's going to be fine_."

And then shouts were heard, and the trio turned to see four officers in the distance running towards them, three with shovels and one with two crowbars. Sherlock and Lestrade sprinted towards them, snatching away the tools and running back, the DI throwing a shovel to Mycroft as they quickly got to work.

More officers arrived and soon seven more people were digging as quickly and efficiently as possible alongside Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg.

They weren't going fast enough, Sherlock mused as they continued to work. Both Greg and Mycroft had taken off their blazers by now to allow them better movement and in the back of his mind, Sherlock noted how his brother's black waistcoat seemed to be hanging off him, suggesting that the diet was going well. He quickly snapped back to the situation, scolding himself for getting distracted.

Twenty minutes – _twenty minutes _– passed before finally Sherlock's shovel hit against something solid. Everybody froze for a second, before the activity became more frenzied as the dirt was scraped away to reveal a wooden coffin resting in the pit. As more of the coffin was exposed, two leather straps had been attached either side of it, which was handy. They must have been placed there so the coffin could be retrieved had Sherlock agreed to work with Jack Reed.

Sherlock, Mycroft, Greg and another officer wasted no time in reaching down to grasp at a strap each, before hoisting the coffin up after a count of three. It wasn't as heavy as Sherlock had expected it to be, and so they had it up and out of the pit relatively quickly. Then, the two crowbars were passed to Sherlock and Greg, and they hurriedly pried open the lid. It came off after a few attempts with a loud _snap_, and Sherlock threw away the crowbar and shoved the lid aside, his heart stopping at the sight of his blogger.

John was unconscious and looking extremely pale, but what really angered Sherlock was the fact that he had been gagged, as well as bound around his feet and wrists – which were tied behind him – despite already being unresponsive due to the chloroform he'd inhaled. Blood was discolouring John's right trouser leg, just above the knee, and it was clear to see that he'd lost far too much.

Sherlock gently lifted his flatmate out from the coffin and onto the ground beside it. He dropped to his knees and accepted the switchblade that Greg was offering and began to quickly saw through the ropes around his wrists and feet. When the doctor was able to rest more comfortably, Sherlock removed the gag and pressed two fingers to his neck, then he passed a hand under John's nose and above his mouth. He could feel the blood drain from his face and he looked up at his brother with a pleading look in his eye.

"He's not breathing, Mycroft. He's not breathing and his heart has stopped."


	38. Zoothapsis V

He was getting too old for this job, Greg mused as he stood back and watched Sherlock continuously pump John Watson's chest and apply mouth to mouth every so often, pure determination gleaming in his eyes. Mycroft had placed his jacket under the doctor's head and was kneeling by his wounded leg and pressing his hands against it to stop the flow of blood.

He was getting too old because he'd seen too many good men die at the hands of feeble-minded bastards acting in a fit of jealousy. John didn't deserve to die. He was far too good a man for that. He was sad to say it, but he had somehow prepared himself for John's death. It was inevitable. John was slipping through their fingers, and he knew that this would end in tears. He'd seen it happen before. God knows how long John had been going without oxygen, and judging by the blue tinge that tarnished his lips, Greg would say long enough.

He wasn't surprised, though, that Sherlock refused to give up. The young man seemed to be whispering something to his blogger as he pounded his chest, but Greg couldn't make out what he was saying. He didn't mind; he knew it wasn't for his ears, anyway. Sherlock looked panicked, out of control, yet no one wanted to tell him to calm down, because they were still holding onto that last piece of hope, that maybe, _maybe_, John would pull through. Hadn't Greg been the one to say that barely twenty minutes ago?

_ "__He'll be fine, he always is. He'll pull through, I promise."_

Sherlock had then scorned him for making promises he couldn't keep, and Greg had wondered whether there had been something behind that comment, but he hadn't had time to dwell on it because then help had arrived and everything had happened so fast. That help was now stood around Greg, along with some of Mycroft's men, watching with sad eyes at the scene before them, being too defeated to interfere. Greg didn't blame them.

Mycroft was also ready for John's departure. He regretted it, of course, but there seemed to be no way of escape. They didn't know enough of the facts, and so they couldn't place false hope where it would never be received. Still, he pressed firmly into the wound on his leg as he listened to his brother plead with John to breathe, but to no avail. It was heart-breaking. Mycroft had never seen Sherlock look so desperate, so lost before, and he wished he never had to see it again.

It was futile, surely Sherlock knew that? Mycroft could still see and feel the warm blood escaping from John's wound and seeping through his fingers. He'd lost far too much blood, and Mycroft feared the consequences would be drastic. He couldn't see a happy ending, that was for sure.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, but his brother ignored him and continued to work, as he knew he would.

"Sherlock, please." he implored.

"Nope." the consulting detective said firmly, refusing to look up at Mycroft.

"It's no use, Sherlock. He's–"

"Don't say it!"Sherlock snapped. "You're wrong!"

"Sherlock–"

"Shut up! Just... shut up." His voice lost its strength as he spoke, and Mycroft gazed sympathetically at him, deciding it wasn't worth arguing with him.

"Come on, John." the detective muttered, refocusing his attention on the motionless army doctor in front of him. "Don't do this."

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Prove them wrong, John, just as you always do."

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Come on, you stubborn idiot."

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Mouth to mouth._

Sherlock's voice had dwindled to a whisper now as he began to plead with his lifeless blogger.

"Breathe, John. Just breathe. That's all you have to do, and then we can go home."

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Because, quite frankly, you're beginning to scare me, and there's nothing I'd like more than to return to Baker Street and have a cup of tea. Don't you want that?"

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Evidently not. Fine, we'll do it your way."

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Sherlock, listen to us–" Greg began, but the detective shook his head vehemently.

"Stop it. You're all giving up on him, which isn't fair. You don't have the right–"

"Goddammit Sherlock, he's dead!" Mycroft shouted, making everyone jump. "Do you understand me? He's dead. We were too late, and I'm sorry but there's nothing you can do."

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock said quietly but firmly, pausing in his work. "I'm not going to leave him. He doesn't deserve it."

"Sherlock, John Watson is the last person in the whole world to deserve this fate, but we didn't get here in time to prevent it. It pains me to say it – it really does – but there's no use anymore." Mycroft had regained control of his voice, and was speaking more calmly.

"Mycroft, please... I can't lose him."

The elder Holmes remained silent; instead he watched his brother with sad eyes as he began to pump John's chest again.

"I... can't... lose... him." Sherlock growled as he pressed harder and harder against the doctor's ribs.

"It's... not... fair."

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"Please... John."

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Mouth to mouth._

"Come... on."

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

"COME ON!"

Lestrade moved then. If he didn't do it then Mycroft would have. Greg jumped forward and gently eased Sherlock away from his blogger. The detective struggled but Lestrade's grip was firm.

"I'm sorry." he whispered. "He was a good man." Sherlock slumped against Greg in defeat, and the inspector closed his eyes, his heart breaking.

And then, miraculously, John breathed.

He drew in a shuddering breath and immediately began coughing. Sherlock threw Lestrade off of him, who backed away willingly, and crawled forward, gathering John in his arms and holding him to his chest whilst ensuring he was sitting upright. John clutched at Sherlock's jacket as he continued to cough.

"You idiot." Sherlock whispered into John's hair, but he knew the doctor could hear him. "You stupid, _stupid _idiot."

"M'sorry." John said between coughs, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Don't _ever _do that to me again, you hear me?"

"I hear you." John whispered.

Greg was shaking his head in pure relief and wearing a big grin on his face, whilst Mycroft bowed his head and sported a small smile. The other officers were laughing and clapping each other on the back, whilst one ran off to fetch the paramedics that had arrived.

"You okay?" John asked, now that the coughing had subsided. He kept his head rested in the crook of Sherlock's neck, not having the energy to do anything.

"I'm fine." Sherlock reassured.

"Greg?"

"Better now." the inspector answered with a grin.

"Mycroft?"

"I'm perfectly fine, John." the government official smiled.

"S'good. No one was hurt?"

Everyone hesitated, averting their gaze from the recovering doctor and mumbling incoherently.

John looked up slightly. "Guys? Sherlock?" He glanced at the detective, who sniffed and watched John with an air of innocence.

Mycroft cleared his throat, getting to his feet. "The ambulance will be here in a moment, John, then you can rest more at the hospital."

"I don't want to rest. What's happened?"

"It's... nothing of concern." he answered.

Sherlock frowned. _Nothing of concern?_ He didn't have time to say anything before paramedics were running towards them and then crowding around John, stabilising his leg and placing an oxygen mask over his face. They strapped him to a stretcher and began to hurry down the footpath and towards the entrance of the cemetery with Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft in tow.

John lost consciousness during the ride to the hospital. Only Sherlock was allowed to sit with him, and he dreaded the moment when he would have to explain Ruth Watson's possibly fatal gunshot wound to her son.

* * *

Sherlock had been sat slouching in an uncomfortable, plastic chair next to John's hospital bed for a long seventeen hours now, still trying to find a way out of his predicament. John had fallen asleep again after awakening a few hours ago, and for once he looked more at ease than he had for the last week.

The door to the private room opened and Sherlock turned, expecting to see a nurse bustle in and check John's chart, but instead he was slightly surprised to see Mycroft enter; especially as it was near six o'clock in the morning.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and Mycroft took his cue to speak, glancing down at his shoes and fiddling with the handle of his umbrella.

"Ruth Watson passed away in the early hours of the morning." he said quietly.

Sherlock's heart plummeted. This was the last thing they needed. This was the last thing _John _needed.

"I can arrange a plane ticket out of the country for you if need be." Mycroft said.

"That's not funny, Mycroft." Sherlock growled.

He sighed. "I know. I don't know why I said it." He glanced up at his brother, "What are you going to do?" he asked softly.

"I'm not sure," Sherlock said, looking across at John and watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, "I can't gauge how he's going to take it."

"He may not show it, but he'll be dependent on you more than ever." Mycroft said. "You're his new family now. You, DI Lestrade and Mrs Hudson all play a part."

"You're part of it too, Mycroft." Sherlock said, albeit a little unwillingly.

"I doubt that." Mycroft smiled. "He can't be too pleased whenever I kidnap him."

"And yet he still asked about you seconds after he'd been pronounced dead. That's got to count for something, don't you think?"

"Perhaps." Mycroft answered. He didn't say anything else though when he heard John hum slightly and then stir.

"I'll leave you to it." Mycroft said.

"Thank you. I appreciate what you've done." Sherlock said absentmindedly, focusing on John. Mycroft gave a small smile before taking his leave.

"John?" Sherlock leaned forward in his chair.

"Mmph. Sh'lock?" John's eyelids cracked open and the detective could see those vibrant hazel eyes gazing up at him.

"Yes, it's me. How do you feel?"

"M'fine." he slurred, struggling to sit up. Sherlock stood and readjusted John's pillows, allowing him to sit upright.

"How long have I been asleep?" the doctor asked.

"Five hours."

"You've been here since?"

"Of course."

John smiled, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile alongside him.

"Good," His expression became slightly more serious as he looked across at his flatmate and leant towards him. "Sherlock, can I ask you something?"

"Anything." he answered, hoping John didn't catch the hesitation in his voice.

"Do you promise to answer me honestly?"

"Yes. What is it?"

John watched Sherlock carefully, ready to read any emotion that flitted across his face.

"What happened to Mum?"

Regret. That was the emotion John caught, and then he immediately knew what the answer was.

Sherlock glanced down at the floor. "I'm sorry, John."

The doctor closed his eyes and fell back against his pillows, defeated.

"The bullet wound?" he croaked.

"I'm afraid so."Sherlock gazed at John sympathetically. "It wasn't your–"

"Of course it was my fault, Sherlock. I left her!" John snapped, his eyelids flying open.

"No, you were only doing what you thought was right."

"Yes, and what I thought was right was actually the wrong choice."

"John, if you didn't run after Jack Reed, we probably would never have caught him, and you would have ended up dead soon after."

"I shouldn't have left her, Sherlock." John whispered, running his hands over his face in sheer exhaustion.

The detective didn't answer and instead he rose to his feet, knowing John would want some time alone. He placed a hand on John's shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly, before exiting the room, leaving the grieving doctor alone.

* * *

Two days later John was discharged from the hospital and was awkwardly climbing out of a cab and onto Baker Street. He looked around with a small smile and waited for Sherlock to get out of the taxi. When the detective joined him, he limped towards the door, leaning heavily on his cane, having outright refused a pair of crutches back at the hospital. Sherlock opened the door and let John grasp his arm as they slowly made their way up the long flight of stairs, step by step by step. It took an eternity, but eventually they were stood outside their flat, John panting slightly from the effort.

John reached forward and opened the door and began to limp inside, but he froze at the sight before him.

"SURPRISE!"

Inside 221B, and gathered around the fire stood Mrs Hudson, Greg and Molly. Even Mycroft had made an appearance, sitting in Sherlock's chair and watching John with an amused smile. The other three were wearing flimsy party hats, and a large 'Welcome Home' banner was hanging across the wall.

John stared at the four of them in shock, looking from one to another before finally glancing back at Sherlock.

"You knew about this?" he asked.

"Who are you kidding, he organised it himself." Lestrade chirped.

"Really?" John raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but seemed to decide against it and settled for smirking at his blogger instead.

"I can't believe you did this." John murmured.

"I'm sure one of us would have thought of it if he hadn't." Molly said with a smile.

"Well, let's not just stand here," Mrs. Hudson said. "There's cake in the kitchen if anyone wants some. John, dear, you sit down I'll fetch you a piece right away."

Everyone moved about, heading towards the kitchen and John limped over to the sofa and sank down onto it, watching his friends fight over the biggest slice of cake. In the end, Mrs. Hudson claimed it and then bustled over to John, handing the slice to him. He accepted it with a smile, though didn't eat it when he saw Sherlock sulking over the smallest slice he'd ended up with.

"Sherlock, come sit." he said with a chuckle, patting the space beside him. The detective frowned but came over anyway and sat down next to him.

"Here." John offered his piece and he laughed again when he saw Sherlock's eyes brighten.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, remembering his manners just at the last minute.

"Take it. But don't tell Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock grinned and snatched the cake away and devoured it as quickly as it had arrived. John ate his slice at a more reasonable speed, and he soon decided it was the most delicious piece of cake he'd ever tasted. He made sure to tell Mrs. Hudson, who brushed it away with a smile and a reddening to her cheeks.

Twenty minutes later and Molly, Greg and Sherlock were engaged in a conversation about corpses, whilst Mrs. Hudson was giving Mycroft tips on how to best get stains out of his suits. He looked like he'd rather be anywhere but there at that moment, but he still accepted the advice with a tight smile. John remained on the sofa, watching them all with an air of happiness and gratitude. He had everything he needed right here.

* * *

Later that evening and Greg – the last remaining guest – decided to leave having watched John finally drop off to sleep on the sofa, his head lolling on Sherlock's shoulder. Both Greg and Sherlock had noticed John occasionally bob his head but then jerk back up when he realised he was about to fall asleep. This had been going on for the past half hour and the two detectives had made a bet as to when John would eventually fall unconscious. Greg had gone on to pay Sherlock ten quid.

Having lost his money, Lestrade grabbed his coat and looked at the two flatmates as he put it on. Sherlock was looking extremely uncomfortable, having realised he couldn't move without possibly awakening John, and Greg grinned.

"You did good today, Sherlock." he said as he looped his scarf around his neck. "John appreciated it, I could tell."

Sherlock said nothing, merely shifted slightly.

"Not many people would do that for their flatmate." he continued. "You guys have something special. Not in _that_ way," he added when he caught the glare Sherlock shot at him. "But you look out for each other more than others would."

"Thank you, Greg." Sherlock rumbled, looking up at the DI. "I'm very grateful for what you did at the cemetery, as well."

"It's fine, Sherlock. I'll see you later." He took his leave and left Sherlock alone with his sleeping blogger.

Sherlock finally smiled at the situation and wound an arm around John, as well as swinging his legs up onto the couch in order to get into a more comfortable position. He soon drifted off too, with his head resting on top of John's and the smile on his face remaining throughout the night.

* * *

**A/N: And there we are! Thank you all so so much for those who have alerted/ favourite/ reviewed so far, and I'd really appreciate some feedback. Tell me your favourite chapter, favourite scene, favourite character, anything; I love to read them all. **

** Thanks for reading, and rest assured I will be doing more in the future xxx**


	39. Author's Note

**First off, apologies to anyone who thought I was adding another chapter. I'm sorry, but I'm actually here to tell you that my Waking story is now complete. A number of people have been asking about it, so I thought it best to tell you here. It is finished. Complete. Fini. Fertig. Completo. **

**Hope you'll like it and thanks once again for reading this story xxx**

**Charlock221**


End file.
